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Sunbeams and 
Shadows 




...A NOVEL.. 




By EDGAR C. BLUM 
ILLUSTRATED 


The Pastime Series— Monthly. $3,00 per annum. No. 138, March, 1895. 
Entered at Chicago Postofflce as second-class matter. 


Chicajro: LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 





SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS 


















Frontispiece. 


He stood, hat in hand. 


—page 21. 



SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS 

A NOVEL 


EDGAR C. BLUM 



Chicago 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 




u 






Entered according to Act of Congress in the year eighteen 
hundred and ninety-tive by 
WILLIAM H. LEE, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 
(Ann KTGnT.s uesekved.) 


Sunbeams and Shadows. 


CHAPTER I. 

The position of Chester Bellmore was not one 
which young men usually avoid. Blessed with 
friends, wealth and opportunities, it would seem 
as though he had good cause to be content. And 
yet he was dissatisfied. 

Possessed of a high appreciation of the merits 
of art and literature, he availed himself of his 
advantages. Books, music, paintings, drama, 
all had special charms for him, and each he could 
in turn enjoy and utilize to his betterment. But 
there was something lacking, and what it was he 
could neither perceive nor explain. He began to 
feel the presence, in a vague form, of a discon- 
tent which gradually increased until its presence 
became unmistakably perceptible. 

He was unable to understand the cause or 
source of his depression, and there was no one 


9 


10 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


to whom he could speak freely on the subject 
until the return of his friend, Dr. George Mere- 
dith, from the west. The latter, with little diffi- 
culty, professed to find a solution to the perplex- 
ing jproblem. He believed that the products of 
art, although elevating and refining, were not in 
themselves sufficient to satisfy all moods and re- 
quirements, and that, to lovers of nature; the 
absence of natural .scenes and events for a pro- 
tracted period leaves the mind in a state akin to 
famine. From this malady he believed his friend 
to be sujBfering, and advised him to go to the 
mountains for relief. Bellmore, while he could 
not fully concur in these views, concluded to act 
upon his advice. 

A week later he found himself at a wood-cut- 
ter’s home, standing all alone at a considerable 
distance from a village which was situated in the 
mountains of Colorado. Apparently there was 
no other habitation within a radius of ten miles. 
On the night of his arrival, b}^ reason of an in- 
tense darkness unusual in that region, he could 
not observe the ehvironments of his new home, 
to which he was driven in a wagon. 

Up to this time country life had wrought no 


sunbkams and shadows. 


11 


magical effect upon him. His first sensation was 
a feeling of dreariness, and this was succeeded by 
a pang of regret at his abandonment of a more 
active life. He retired early and was soon 
asleep. 

Next morning, when he awoke, he could not 
for a time realize where he was, so sound had 
been his sleep. By the songs that came through 
the open window to his ears, he was led to infer 
that he was in a delightful aviary. The warm 
rays of the sun imparted a feeling of cheerfulness, 
to which his gloomy forebodings of the preceding 
night speedily capitulated. After a hasty break- 
fast, he emerged from the cottage, to view his 
surroundings. 

He found himself in the heart of a plateau, en-' 
tirely immured by mountains, whose summits 
were surmounted by clouds of snowy white. 
Above all was a sky so blue, it seemed no other 
shade could be so pure as to join it in a harmony 
of colors. 

A brief time he viewed this simple, wondrous 
scene, unknown to him, and, as he inhaled the 
incense with which the morning air seemed 
freighted, he. realized that up to this time his 


12 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


quest had been successful. He had found a 
change. 

A feeling of contentment began to assert its 
control over him and found him no rebellious 
subject. The nearest peak was his first destina- 
tion, and to its base he walked briskly. It ap- 
peared to be but a short distance from his start- 
ing point, but as he approached eluded his pur- 
suit so long that by the time he reached it, hun- 
ger rendered a thorough exploration then im- 
practicable, and he was constrained to turn back. 
His meal, which could never have secured the 
approbation of an epicure, was the most enjoy- 
able he had had for years, and after it he took a 
little book and sought the shade of a great tree 
at the base of a hill, lighting a cigar, he took 
his book from his pocket, and prepared to enjoy 
himself with these immediate resources of pleas- 
ure. For the circuit of the place which he de- 
signed to make held forth so much promise that 
he was loath to consign it hastily to the past, and 
satisfied himself for the time being with his 
pleasant anticipation. 

But, although the book was of a very interest- 
ing character, he soon renounced reading as an 


SUNBEJAMS AND SHADOWS. 


13 


occupation, and discovering near the foot of a 
hill a path which led circuitously into an adjoin- 
ing forest, he wandered along among the great 
trees there abounding. His latent energy was 
now thoroughly aroused, and he was impelled, 
for the first time in years, to have a long run, 
leaping over the stumps and bushes that lay in 
his path, with the agility of former days. To- 
wards evening, when he started along the path to 
return to the cottage, he was in a cheerful frame 
of mind. Rural life was evidently beneficial to 
him. He sat down and began to reflect upon the 
causes that had made his recent life burdensome, 
and, after subjecting his position to an analysis 
made under these favorable conditions, he could 
perceive no occasion for the existence of the mor- 
bid feelings that had taken possession of him. 
His friend was evidently right. His day’s so- 
journ in this vicinity had demonstrated the fact 
that his soul made some requisitions which a 
metropolitan life could ‘never meet. In a con- 
tented frame of mind, he returned to enjoy an- 
other night’s uninterrupted rest. 

Next day he found his way to the summit of 
the mountain, and discovered a forest, which he 


14 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


^entered. It was a perfect day. The rays of the 
sun were intercepted by no single cloud. But 
here on the mount neither sky nor sun was visi- 
ble. Both were screened by a group of trees, 
beneath one of which he lay upon the grass. 

No zephyr was then astir ; everything was 
^uiet. To the right there extended a range of 
mountains, behind which was a higher range of 
snow capped peaks to serve as a perspective. 
Grand and towering they looked, and this picture 
of might rendered the stillness all the more im- 
pressive. He looked about him and to his mind 
there came a natural train of reflection. For 
countless ages this had been so. The mountains 
and the fields contained within their silent bosom 
the chronicles of centuries that had left no other 
record on the books of time to which the hand of 
man has access. Yet the scene was suggestive of 
the strangest history, the most wonderful mythol- 
ogy. Silent and immutable were these hills, 
contemporaries of the earliest of the race. The 
sounds of the little stream, flowing gently down 
the slope, came to him like voices from a far dis- 
tant past. The history of other lands had been 
told for centuries in many tongues ; but here he 


SUNBIJAMS AND SHADOWS. 


15 


could find no line or word suggesting any pre- 
vious condition. Here nature’s works spoke for 
themselves alone; but their language could not 
be misinterpreted. 

Under the influence of his present condition, 
all petty thoughts, the disappointments of his 
past career, appeared to him too insignificant for 
consideration. Not one of them, subjected to an 
analysis at this time, could withstand a moment’s 
test. In consequence, the past soon yielded in 
his thoughts to a realization of a delightful 
present. 

He was now led on to further reflection in the 
same line of thought. Though a brief sojourn 
in one of nature’s attractive niches could relieve 
a distraught mind, was the feeling of content- 
ment which it inspired merely a transient specter 
or a pow^erful host whose hand would wield its 
beneficent power forever? The question found 
an easy answer. This scene, so wondrous and 
exalting, was but a meager part of a vast whole, 
whose variety precluded the entrance of a surfeit. 
The whole, comprising the world, was but a 
small part of the universe. Still further would 
he have proceeded in this field of contemplation. 


16 


SUNBKAMS AND -SHADOWS. 


but the inevitable bar to progress in this line of 
thought soon presented itself. He paused. He 
had no need to wander into mysterious regions. 
There was enough spread out before his view to 
enlist the service of his highest faculties. The 
beauty and the grandeur of the earth left no 
necessity to look beyond. 

His surroundings seemed to be in full sympa- 
thy with his present feelings. Bach tree, each 
leaf, each blade of grass, seemed conscious and 
content. For a long time he sat there in medita- 
tion. When at length, admonished by twilight, 
he aro.se to return to the cottage, he was imbued 
with a feeling in which disappointment would 
have found an uncongenial companion. Slowly 
he walked homeward, reflecting upon the gratify- 
ing change in his feelings and the circumstances 
by which it had been produced. As a result, he 
evolved the conclusion that his happiness was not 
dependent upon his fellowmen, and that in na- 
ture’s fields he would find a path to lead him to 
a worthy goal. He had wandered, as it seemed, 
from a populous desert to a deserted garden. He 
did not then recall the many changes to which life, 
unlike a picture representing one of its scenes, i > 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


17 


subject; and that even a picture, in itself endur- 
ing and unchanging, responds in effect to every 
move of light or shade and every change of posi- 
tion of the observer. To-day, under the influence 
of a fortuitous chain of thought and pleasing 
impressions, we see in our surroundings a source 
of perpetual happiness; to-morrow, in the same 
position and with the same surroundings, a pass- 
ing thought or fleeting fancy, arising like a phan- 
tom from a misty past, introduces an element of 
doubt, to which so many hopes succumb. 


2 


18 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER II. 

Two more days were spent in a similar manner 
and with an excellent result, for his spirits con- 
stantly improved until he retained no trace of any 
morbid feeling. As he walked through the for- 
est, he wondered if it were indeed possible for 
him to be at all times satisfied in this place, and 
if a hermit’s life would ever become irksome or 
monotonous. The latter question he answered 
promptly in the negative. He was fully con- 
vinced that he could, without a murmur or re- 
gret, continue in his present isolation during life. 

On the fourth day he resolved to extend the 
circuit of his ambulations, and, two miles beyond 
the path which led from the group of peaks in 
that vicinity, he entered a dense forest, in which 
he could discover no evidence of a human foot- 
step that had preceded his own. The change 
produced the effect of an eclipse, an entrance at 
a bound from day’s regime to the dominion of 
night. As he continued to traverse the forest, 
hearing no sound save the crackling of leaves be- 


sunbe;ams and shadows. 


19 


neath his feet, the darkn<;ss was gradually re- 
lieved until he found himself at one of the out- 
skirts of the forest, in a soft, refulgent light, that 
connected day and night, leading from the one to 
the other by an imperceptible transition. 

As he stood beneath one of the gigantic trees 
in the forest, the mellifluous sound of flowing 
waters came to his ears, and he hastened in 
search of its source. This he discovered in a 
deep, translucent brook, the bed of which he 
could easily see. In the adjoining mount it found 
its life; whence it led he could not know; but, 
though its ultimate destination was concealed 
from him, its beauty required no extraneous 
revelation. 

Turning suddenly around, his feet came in 
contact with some object, and he heard a crash. 
With the utmost surprise, he discovered at his 
feet a broken pitcher, from the mouth of which 
flowed some water that it had contained. 

Here was a discovery. The pitcher, it is true, 
was not a marvel of beauty nor a work of art, 
but its present location rendered it an object of 
the deepest interest. It could not have been 
there unless some (^^e had placed it there, and he 


20 


sunbeams and shadows. 


was led to wonder who his companion in the for- 
est might be. Another problem presented to 
his mind was how to replace the pitcher, and, as 
this was at the time clearly impossible, he hoped 
that its owner would prove to be a reasonable 
being, whose wrath it would not be difficult to 
appease. 

While he was still pondering, he heard the 
sound of a voice whose sweetness banished from 
his mind all thoughts save those related to the 
voice and its unseen owner. Clearer and louder 
became the voice, as nearer and nearer drew its 
owner, until, glancing around toward his right, 
his eager look encountered an image which be- 
came engraved upon his mind. Important events 
of our lives, covering a period of years, ma}^ in 
time find their way among fading memories, 
while the impression of an instant is inscribed in 
indelible characters upon the records of our lives, 
never to be forgotten or eradicated. 

He beheld the beautiful form of a girl of sur- 
passing beauty. He could not at the moment 
analyze the various elements which produced 
that wonderful effect, but he could appreciate 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


21 


perfect features, a faultless complexion, and an 
incomparably sweet expression. 

Clad in a plain white dress, with a shaker 
hanging over her shoulders, and her beautiful 
dark eyes open in astonishment, she seemed the 
incarnation of innocence and loveliness. 

He stood, hat in hand, in silence before her. 
He lowered his glance lest his attentive gaze 
might become embarrassing. Her eyes, which 
were fixed upon him, revealed an expression of 
surprise, but no trace of anxiety or alarm. A 
moment of silence ensued before he spoke. He 
scarcely knew in what terms to address her; but, 
as he was certain that ignorance was not em- 
braced in the primitive conditions indicated by 
her surroundings, he saw no reason to depart 
from his usual manner and methods. With a 
respectful bow he addressed her: 

“I hope you will forgive this intrusion,” he 
said, “when I explain that I am a stranger in 
these parts and that accident alone rendered me a 
listener to your song. ’ ’ 

This said, he awaited, with great interest, her 
reply, which came without hesitation in the form 
of a question. 


22 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


“ Did you like the song ? ’ ’ 

“Very much,” he said. “ May I not hear the 
end of it ? ” 

‘ ‘ I would willingly please you, but for years I 
have not sung for any one but papa and the 
wood-cutters.” 

“Who are the wood -cutters ? ” 

“ Two men who cut wood for papa and .send it 
to the city. ’ ’ 

“ Strange that you sing only for them.” 

“ No, not at all. There is no one in this place 
except the wood-cutters, their wives and our- 
selves.” 

Her frank replies, rendered doubly charming 
by her modest demeanor, removed whatever hesi- 
tation he might else have entertained as to the 
advisability of continuing the conversation. 

‘ ‘ Have you no friend or companion of your 
own age ? ” 

“None at all. The wood-cutters and their 
wives are older than I am; they are as old as 
papa. I had a companion, but he went away 
years ago.” 

‘ ‘ Who was he ? ” 

“Frank Grammell. He was two years older 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


23 


than I. He said he would be back in a year, 
but he did not come. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And how long have you lived in this place ? " 

“ Nearly all my life.” 

‘ ‘ Have you never visited any of the large 
cities ? ’ ’ 

“No, I wanted to go, but papa did not seem 
inclined to see them, so I never asked him to 
take me. ’ ’ 

“Pardon me, but will you explain how it is 
that, although you have lived here in seclusion 
all your life, your education has not been 
neglected ?” 

“ Papa taught me whatever I know,” she said. 
‘ ‘ I know nothing but what I learned from him, 
because the wood-cutters and Frank never went 
to school.” 

“ Do you not sometimes feel lonesome?” 

“No. Years ago papa would appear to be 
lonesome, but now we never find any cause for 
discontent.” 

“Do you never see any one but the wood- 
cutters ? Do you not at times see strangers ?” 

‘ ‘ I have not seen three strangers in ten years. 
The hills and trees are my companions, and very 


24 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


good companions they are. One who has lived 
a lifetime among them cannot believe that they 
have been given life without a soul.” 

“ Do you believe that all objects have a spirit- 
ual existence?’* 

“No. When I see a board, I do not look 
upon it as a living thing, because the tree from 
which it came was killed in order to produce it. 
But when I see a tree in blossom, each leaf seems 
like a message from a mind that cannot express 
its thoughts in words. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But do you not sometimes feel that you would 
like to meet some one to whom you could confide 
a passing thought or impression?” 

“Yes, but I have a friend and adviser in papa. 
I tell him everything. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And yet the presence of a stranger occasions 
you no fear or embarrassment ? ” 

‘ ‘ No, why should it ? There can be no cause for 
that. I have not tried to injure others; then 
why should any one wish to injure me? But I 
must get my pitcher and go. ’ * 

So saying, she started to walk around the tree, 
on the other side of which was the broken pitcher. 

At the mention of the pitcher, a recollection of 


sunbeams and shadows. 


25 


his guilt came to him. Having no alternative, 
he was constrained to rely upon the mercy of his 
judge. He observed the look of regret with which 
she viewed the fragments and felt at that moment 
very much like a criminal. 

' ‘ I have broken my pitcher,” she said, in tones 
of regret. ” I must have placed it on a rock or 
board. How could I have been so careless ? ” 

” You are accusing yourself without cause. I 
must again ask your forgiveness, for I am the 
guilty party.” 

” You broke it ? ” 

‘ ‘ A malicious accident made me the unfortu- 
nate offender. ’ ’ 

In a moment her expression of sorrow had 
yielded to a bright smile, and she uttered a low, 
musical laugh. 

‘ ‘ Don’t let it trouble you, ” she said. “ I have 
two others at the house.” 

‘ ‘ And I am forgiven ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, if you will break off its ear for me so 
that I can remember it.” 

‘ ‘ I could not have divined that, even with a 
judge so generous, my offense would meet with a 
reward instead of a punishment.” 


26 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


He knelt upon the ground and was soon at 
work reducing the ear of the pitcher to shape. 
His efforts were successful, and he was soon en- 
abled to give it to her in a fairly symmetrical 
form. 

“And now,” she said, after expressing her 
thanks, “ I must be gone.” 

“ I have no right to detain you, even for a 
moment. But may I not see you again ? ’ ’ 

“Certainly, and papa, too. Papa has always 
said that a stranger in an unknown land has 
greater claims than one’s own friends.” 

‘ ‘ I would like to become acquainted with 
your father.” 

‘ ‘ Would you ? ’ ! she asked, with childish pleas- 
ure. “I knowv that you would like him. I’ll 
speak to him about it.” 

“ Do,” he .said, ‘ ‘ and increase my indebtedne.ss 
to you.” 

AVith a graceful bow, she left him. For some 
time he stood there, gazing after her retreating 
form and then in the direction in which she had 
gone. At length he stooped, picked up a piece 
of the broken pitcher, and placed it in his pocket. 

His thoughts had undergone a wonderful 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


27 


change. The scene which met his eyes was as 
beautiful as it had been before, but to his mind it 
presented at that time no attraction. For the 
time being, the charms of forests and mountains 
were forgotten, while the image of a human being 
monopolized his thoughts. He was startled 
when this fact dawned upon his mind, but 
answered it by urging the exceptional character 
from which the meeting had derived its interest, 
and assured himself that it was but a temporary 
diversion from the path which he had selected. 

Nevertheless, he was conscious of an earnest 
desire to see her again, and to hear again her 
frank expression of thought in dulcet tones. And 
he was impatient for the morrow, for the time 
being ignoring the fact that he had no appoint- 
ment which assured him a meeting. He had a 
vague belief that he would meet her at the same 
place, and he returned home, to await eagerly the 
coming of the day. 

Next morning he was astir early, and started 
on his usual walk. About an hour before the 
one at which he had made the discovery of the 
pitcher the day before, he wandered to the same 
spot, and waited there patiently. But now it 


28 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


occurred to him that another meeting, no time or 
place having been designated for it, was by no 
means a certainty. He might have taken too 
much for granted, and he began to inveigh 
against his stupidity, which rendered such a state 
of affairs possible. He waited fully two hours 
beyond the time at which he had met her the 
preceding day, and only after it became evident 
that she would not come did he turn back towards 
his home. Try as he would, he could not con- 
ceal from himself the fact that he was disap- 
pointed. True, he had come out there to study 
the beauty of objects, and any person could have 
but a brief claim upon his attention, and, at the 
expiration of a very reasonable period, would be 
rigidly excluded. His feeling of disappointment, 
however, remained, and maintained its sway. 
He could not blame her. In the first place, it 
was impossible for her, with her innocent trust- 
fulness in mankind, to treat him or any one with 
unkindness or discourtesy. She had, moreover, 
given an implied assent to another meeting. He 
had only himself to blame, and he did it without 
mercy. 

He resolved to make another attempt on the 


sunbeams and shadows. 


29 


morrow, and upon this intent he acted. Having 
selected another path as presenting an additional 
promise to success, he was walking through the 
forest, when suddenly he heard the sound of foot- 
steps approaching from the opposite direction, and 
the next moment he stood before the girl whose 
form had been haunting him. 

Her manner was, as before, entirely uncon- 
strained. She smiled as she accepted his extended 
hand. Learning, upon inquiry, that she was 
going home, he requested and obtained permis- 
sion to walk along beside her. 

She was carrying in her hand a little basket, of 
which he relieved her. He learned that it con- 
tained a luncheon for the wood- cutters, the girl 
insisting that refreshments must be necessary at 
that hour each day to laborers of their advanced 
age and arduous duties. Every day she per- 
formed this service, notwithstanding their remon- 
strances. The pitcher that he had broken had 
been used by her in supplying the men at certain 
hours with water from a little spring that adjoined 
the forest. When asked about it, she said she 
did this as a matter of necessity, as it had to be 
done and there was no one else there to do it. 


30 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


No need to detail the lengthy conversation that 
took place between them. No .single topic, re- 
quiring profound thought or thorough knowledge, 
was discussed; none from which either could 
derive any special instruction; and yet there was 
no element lacking to make it the most entertain- 
ing chat that he had ever had. He did not then 
stop to reflect upon the reason. He was too 
much occupied with the fact to bestow any 
thought upon the causes accountable for its 
existence. 

He was gratified to hear that her father ex- 
tended to him, as a stranger, the privilege to 
visit the cottage. His call would have to be de- 
ferred, as the old gentleman had been very ill, 
and was then convalescent. If then he was not 
^at liberty to call for a time, he argued that, as a 
lone mortal in a strange land, he ought to be 
accorded an opportunity to meet her again else- 
where. While he made no attempt to designate 
any certain place, he expressed the hope that, as 
her presence in that neighborhood rendered their 
meeting extremely probable, his intrusion at 
times might be forgiven. The young girl could 
see no objection. Prone to trust any one, she 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


31 


was led by his gentlemanly bearing and consider- 
ate attentions to place implicit confidence in him. 
Thus it was that they met again beside the little 
brook where he had first seen her. 

By this time, he had learned the story of their 
simple lives. Her father had been a wealthy 
city merchant. The illness of his wife having 
necessitated a journey abroad, he had entrusted 
his possessions to his relatives. Upon his return* 
he had succeeded in finding some of his relatives 
but none of his fortune. The young girl was 
unable to explain what had become of the money ^ 
but Chester required no explanation for a perfect 
understanding of the case. 

It is difficult to say whether the old man 
grieved more for the absence of his money or his 
friends. Certain it is that he left soon after with 
his little daughter, his wife having died abroad. 
To the girl he never explained the details of the 
transaction. 

Whatever the cause, she knew that to this 
place he had removed and lived with her alone 
until constrained by advanced age to send for the 
wood-cutters to help him in the labor from which 


32 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


he derived support. As she grew older he de- 
voted much time to her instruction. 

Thus, at the age of nineteen, Gertrude was far 
from being an ignorant girl. With this knowl- 
edge of her past, Chester was well prepared to 
enter upon an interesting study of her future. 







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Ill a few words he told her the storv 


page 37 





SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


33 


CHAPTER III. 

“Your life out here’” said he, as they were 
walking along towards thfeir home, ‘ ‘which would 
at first impress a stranger as a lonesome one, pos- 
sesses attractions which no other place can 
equal. ’ ’ 

“To us,” she replied, “it is delightful. But 
to one who has lived in a great city, with 
all its enjoyments and among old friends, it may 
have no charms. Will you tell me about the 
cities? ” 

“ Certainly; what particular features? ” 

‘ ‘ How does city life differ from life in a place 
like this ? ” 

“ It would be difficult to answer that question, 
so vast is the difference. In the first place, in 
the city, our attention is devoted almost entirely 
to people, to the exclusion of things. We have 
trees, buds and fiowers, just as you have here, 
but there they are regarded as minor features, 
contributing to man’s comfort, while here you 


3 


34 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


view them as objects differing but in attributes, 
and not in origin or character from man.” 

She reflected for a moment. 

“You must not think,” she said, “that my 
experience is altogether of objects and that I 
have none regarding people. For, although I 
have seen but few persons since my early child- 
hood, I have known thousands.” 

“How?” 

“ By reading. I have read about so many men 
and women that I am not entirely ignorant of the 
world in which you live. ’ ’ 

As they were walking along, she suddenly 
grasped his arm and pulled him aside. Glancing 
at the ground, to discover the cause of this move- 
ment, he saw some birds directly ahead in the 
path which they had been traversing, and rightly 
divined that her wish to leave them unmolested 
had caused her to arrest his footsteps. In fact, 
he observed that no single object which came to 
her notice suffered from a lack of attention; and 
he observed further — and this discovery assumed 
a vast importance — that at the same time the 
increase of his regard for her became equally 
manifest. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


35 


On this occasion, he was permitted to enter 
the cottage, and for the first time met her father. 
He was on old man, although not so old as his 
gray hair indicated. He was quiet, grave and 
not easily approachable. He welcomed his guest 
with brevity, and in a manner that would have 
been offensively cold but for its sincerity. Dur- 
ing the greater portion of the time of the visit, 
he allowed the conversation to be carried on 
between his daughter and his guest, but at times 
he interpolated some comment, which removed a 
suspicion of his lack of interest in the subjects 
under discussion. 

Now for some reason, which might not yet 
have been entirely clear, the young man desired 
to secure the favor of the old gentleman, and he 
realized that this would be a difiicult, if not an 
impossible, task. So it might have been but for 
an accident which generously contributed its ser- 
vices in the matter. The old gentleman was 
visited by a sudden illness at a time that business 
affairs — few of which he had — claimed his atten- 
tion. They involved all his property. For a 
time he was in sore distress as to what to do. 
The matter required his presence in a distant 


36 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


city, which his health would not then permit him 
to visit. Neither of the wood -cutters could act 
as his representative, as every rule of business 
was conspicuous in the items of knowledge which 
they lacked. Therefore, when the young man 
tendered his services, notwithstanding his dis- 
inclination to place himself under obligations to 
any of his fellowmen, he was constrained to avail 
himself of the offer, and had no cause to regret 
his acceptance. For the settlement of the matter 
required the expenditure of a sum far in excess 
of his ready means or expectations, and, without 
it, all he had would have been lost. Placed in 
this situation, Chester had no ready means of 
communication with Mr. Trevlyn, and, the ex- 
igencies of the case requiring prompt action, he 
paid out the money from his own ample fortune. 
Of this he said nothing to the old gentleman, 
and the latter would never have discovered it but 
for the visit, soon thereafter, of an agent with 
whom Chester had negotiated. 

“ Mr. Bellmore,” inquired Mr. Trevlyn, “ why 
did you not tell me that you laid out a large sum 
of money for me ? ” 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


37 


Chester was surprised at the question, but 
made haste to answer. 

‘ ‘ I was waiting for you to recover your health, 
so that you could give a better attention to 
business. ’ ’ 

“Young man, you are not telling me the 
truth. You did not intend to tell me.” 

Chester was about to make some reply, which, 
it is to be feared, would not have been in entire 
accord with the truth, but he had no opportunity 
to say anything before the other spoke again. 

‘ ‘ I must make arrangements at once to repay 
you, and then we will let that pass. But you 
must never do anything of the kind again. I 
know your act was prompted only by kindness, 
but it is not right — it does not seem so to me — after 
the experience which I have had.” 

Chester remained but a few moments. He did 
not await the return of Gertrude, who had gone 
out on her usual mission to the wood-cutters. 
When she returned, she found her father alone, 
seated at the table, with his elbow resting upon it. 

“Come here, Gertrude,'' he said, and she 
came to him and seated herself beside him. 

“Gertrude, you have always said that the 


38 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


world is good and generous, and I have thought 
otherwise. I know now that, if your belief is 
not correct, it is not altogether wrong. 

“ Who has convinced you, papa? ” 

‘ ‘ A stranger, whom I have known but a few 
days.” 

“Mr. Bellmore?” 

“Yes.” 

In a few words he told her the story. The girl 
listened in silence to his recital. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


39 


CHAPTER IV. 

The next day, when Chester visited the cottage, 
Mr. Trevlyii broached the subject of the advance, 
with a view to effecting arrangements for its re- 
payment. Chester tried to avoid it for a time, 
but the old gentleman was resolute and would not 
desist. The latter explained his financial condi- 
tion — there was very little to explain — and pro- 
posed to pay in small installments, as promises of 
larger payments would have been futile. But 
Chester declared that he had conceived a plan* 
which, from a business standpoint, was far more 
feasible. He explained that the debt could be 
repaid soon if paid out of a larger income; that 
such an income could be secured by an increase 
of the debt, the money to be utilized towards the 
purchase of machinery which would facilitate the 
labor of wood-cutting. By ingenious reasoning 
and indirect persuasion, he succeeded in convinc- 
ing Mr. Trevlyn of the merits of his plan, and he 
himself went to the city to make the requisite 
purchases. As the old man could not accompany 


40 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


him, he took one of the wood -cutters with him. 
The result was highly gratifying to all concerned. 
It was now unnecessary, argued Chester, to 
appoint a definite time for the liquidation of the 
debt, as its payment within a reasonable period 
was now practically assured. 

This incident, aside from its immediate value 
as an occasion to confer a benefit upon those for 
whom he entertained a particular regard, exerted 
an important influence upon his thoughts and 
acts. He had learned that money, whose influ- 
ence is so frequently derided and which he him- 
self had long despised, was another lever of hap- 
piness, if set in motion at an appropriate time. 
And now he first derived a feeling of satisfaction 
from a thought of his wealth, as he perceived the 
good uses to which a large portion of it could be 
put, without endangering his existence in the 
least. A new sphere of usefulness had been 
opened to him, and he was eager to enter upon it. 
The first persons to whose advantage this resolve 
redounded were the wood-cutters. 

But another and a greater change had occurred 
in his condition. He was now dominated by a 
feeling which excluded from his mind every trace 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


41 


of all that was unpleasant or uninteresting in his 
past. Some mighty cause must have intervened 
in his behalf, and it required no lengthy investiga- 
tion to discover its nature. He learned it by 
reading his own heart. He found there the 
inscription of a language theretofore unknown to 
him, but which he found no difficulty to interpret. 

He had often read the story of a man who, 
after meeting great numbers of women of every 
type and variety, without retaining a permanent 
impression of any, had met a young girl who per- 
haps differed in no respect from many met before, 
save the attributes with which his imagination 
alone endued her; yet for him she possessed an 
irresistible fascination. He had read also of the 
extent to which this feeling, known as love, oft 
leads, under different circumstances and condi- 
tions, finding various allies, but always the most 
powerful which nature can provide. In the 
authentic history and fiction of the times, he 
could trace to love the most appalling crimes 
which a desperate mind could conceive, and acts 
of magnanimity that exalted the entire race of 
man. It was clear that it embraced, in its scope 


42 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


and influence, the deepest and most powerful 
faculties of the mind and soul. 

He had read tales of deprivation endured with 
sublime resignation for the sake of love ; of no- 
blest sacrifice and martyrdom in the same cause, 
and had received these stories with incredulity, 
regarding them as creations which could find no 
existing models. 

No lesson was ever so forcibly conveyed to his 
mind as was the knowledge of his error in this 
regard. He did not yield to argument alone, but 
was converted by an unmistakable demonstration. 
He found himself deeply, tenderly, helplessly 
in love. And when now he asked himself could 
love beget a sacrifice, if essential to the welfare 
of its object, the question was followed by an- 
other: could any loss in such a cause be deemed 
a sacrifice? Upon this subject, doubts would 
never trouble him again. 

With him it was no fancied or ephemeral pas- 
sion, productive of alternate hopes and fears, com- 
fort and jealousy. No struggle marked its ad- 
vent, no obstacle threw its shadow across the 
future. He was in a peaceful, contented, 


sunbe;ams and shadows. 


43 


blessed state, which, now attained, he hoped 
would then abide with him for life. 

He went forth every day, to green-clad hills 
and sylvan vales. More glorious was now the 
day, more serene the night. The sun shed a new 
radiance, that revealed a peerless prospect to his 
eager view. The moon bore an increased luster- 

His surroundings afforded a reflex to his own 
life. The banks, on which he reclined in calm 
content, symbolized a newly born hope. The 
placid stream would carry the bark on which he 
had taken passage to happy shores. And the 
trees, that had withstood the storms of ages, gave 
promise that this blissful state was destined to 
endure forever. 

A wonderful change had been wrought in his 
life in a few short weeks. He, who had before 
thought life to be at best an indifferent possession, 
dependent for its value or worthlessness upon the 
accident of the hour, now looked upon it as a gift 
for which a fabled paradise could offer no 
adequate exchange. His vision was not circum- 
scribed by a low horizon; an endless vista spread 
before his gaze. And this glowing picture of the 
present covered but a portion of the canvas, on 


44 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


which was also outlined, in a clear perspective, a 
shadowless future. 

Every object that he now beheld appeared to 
greet him kindly. It is possible that some of his 
thoughts, if revealed during these days, might 
have subjected him to a charge of folly. He sup- 
plied words, in the language of his heart, to the 
song of the rill. Seated beside its flowing waters, 
and listening to their gentle music, he replied to 
them. 

“ Yes, you are right,” he said, “ she is all that 
is good and pure and beautiful, and you are here 
to tell the story of her life. Flow on, while I 
remain upon your banks, and hear the story that 
you have to tell.” 

He liked to enter a little cavern that he had 
discovered, there to give utterance to her name, 
for there the echo of his voice would keep it long 
in his hearing. Every day he visited the spot 
where still lay fragments of the broken pitcher. 
The largest pieces he imbedded firmly in the soil. 

And thus, while he was alone, he passed these 
days in blissful dreams and reveries. If occa- 
sionally he would chide himself with a desertion 
of nature’s works, which he had come out there 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


45 


to study, in self-exoneration he would reply that 
his devotion to her marked no desertion of 
nature, for she herself was the most immaculate 
work that nature had produced. 

By this time, he had become quite popular in 
that neighborhood. Gertrude, the wood-cutters 
and their wives, all liked him. He possessed Mr. 
Trevlyn’s unbounded confidence. But to his 
persuasions to leave his hermitage and enter 
again the world upon which he had turned his 
back so many years before, the old man paid no 
heed. His resolution to adhere to the course 
which he had then outlined for himself appeared 
irrevocable. Among the arguments employed 
by Chester to effect his end was a representation 
of the advantages that the young girl would- 
derive from city life; but the old man replied that 
that was not indispensable to her proper develop- 
ment, and Chester agreed with him that her 
present condition justified this assertion. The 
stern determination of Mr. Trevlyn to continue 
in his seclusion occasioned Chester some serious 
reflection. 

For he had determined, if he should encounter 
no insuperable objection, to make Gertrude his 


46 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


wife. For a time, it had seemed to him that, 
even if he could win her love, Mr. Trevlyn’s gen- 
eral opinion of mankind indicated an energetic 
opposition from that quarter. But having gained 
the old man’s favor, that danger was diminished, 
and might be entirely removable. It seemed 
improbable that he could ever induce him to 
abandon his reclusive life, and he could scarcely 
believe that Gertrude would leave her father at a 
time that her services were most urgently 
required. If, therefore, his chief end was to be 
attained, he might be constrained to content him- 
self with a quiet life out here. As to this possi- 
bility, no doubt regarding his course was created 
in his mind. Fife with her beside him would be 
a precious boon in lands which had nothing else 
to give. And in this sunny spot, where he had 
found all that he now held most dear, where all 
that lived and all that seemed to live appeared to 
be in sympathy with him, and whispered to him 
fond hopes that his happy state would be per- 
petual, here he felt that an existence enduring 
with the world itself could never be a hardship. 


sunbeams and shadows. 


47 


CHAPTER V. 

As yet he had made no mention of his love, but 
they were on very friendly terms. By no single 
word or act had the pleasant relations subsisting 
between them ever been marred. In her conduct 
towards him, she evinced no more constraint 
than she would have shown if he had been her 
brother. With the frankness of an innocent 
soul, she would exhibit a perfect freedom of 
action. When walking up a hill, she would not 
hesitate to offer him her hand of her own accord 
and allow him to retain it until the end of the 
ascent. The same candid spirit marked her 
speech in conversation with him. And Chester, 
seeing before him a girl of childish simplicity in 
all that pertained to wrong, and with a clear dis- 
cernment and intelligence applied to right and 
truth, gradually yielded to an impalpable spell, 
by which he was soon enchained. He could not 
judge her by any standard based upon a knowl- 
edge of the world. To him all her acts revealed 


48 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


a matchless grace, and each word possessed a 
special charm. 

‘ ‘ Gertrude, ” he said to her one day, as they 
were walking together upon the banks of the 
stream, “I have already told you what it was 
that brought me to this place. But I have found 
far more than I ever sought. Shall I tell you 
why I have tarried here so long ? For the same 
reason that I would remain, if I could, until the 
end of time. Three words will explain it all — I 
love you. These words convey but a part of my 
feelings, but all my hopes. Tell me that you 
will be mine. ’ ’ 

For the first time, he observed that she was 
greatly embarrassed by his words. She with- 
drew her hand from his clasp, and averted her 
blushing face. She tried to speak, but could 
utter no word. 

He did not misconstrue her silence. He re- 
called the fact that he was addressing a country 
maid, who had never heard a word of love from 
any one save her father. He waited patiently, 
and soon she spoke. 

“ You do me too much honor,” she said, ” I — 
I do e.steem you highly, but — but I have some- 





> % 


“ Tell me all you have to say 


page 48 






SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


49 


thing to tell you, something that I would have 
told you long ago if I had known this. ’ ’ 

She paused. 

“ Proceed, Gertrude. Tell me all you have to 
say, so that we can understand each other.” 

” I have already told you about Frank Gram- 
niell, my companion of years ago. We were 
children Fere, and no angry word ever passed 
between us. We loved each other, but never 
said anything about it until he went away to gain 
a name and fortune. He was very hopeful and 
said that he would soon return. He told me that 
he wanted a fortune only for my sake; that he 
wanted to make me his wife some day. We felt 
sure that we would be perfectly happy, and 
neither of us had any idea that our wishes would 
ever change. We promised to wait five years 
for each other. We would have named a longer 
period, but papa would not consent, and we were 
satisfied, because five years seemed a lifetime to 
us. Papa said it was all a piece of childish work, 
and I know now it must have been. For a time, 
we received letters from him regularly, then less 
frequently, and within the last two years we have 


50 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


not heard from him. But the five years have 
not yet elapsed.” 

‘ ‘ And you consider yourself bound by that 
pledge ?” 

“ Firmly and truly. It was made in all sin- 
cerity.” 

‘ ‘ And if the period of waiting expire and he 
do not come ?’ ’ 

“Until then,” she said, hesitatingly, and 
stopped. 

“ I understand,” he said, “ and you are right. 
Until then we have no right to speak upon the 
subject. But tell me, when will the time expire?” 

“ In a few weeks; just twenty-three days.” 

‘ ‘ Then from this time I shall consider you my 
own.” 

Gertrude smiled. 

‘ ‘ Twenty-three days from date, ” she said, ‘ ‘ I 
promise to give— I forget the rest of it, papa says 
that is the way they make out a bond or check, I 
think.” 

‘ ‘ I see our views on commercial matters diiBfer 
slightly. But no matter. I would rather have 
your love than your note. ” 

They parted in excellent spirits, neither one 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


51 


entertaining the slightest doubt as to the outcome. 
During the next three weeks he thought but 
little of himself, or of any one but Gertrude. 
Whenever his thoughts did revert to himself, 
however, she w^as always in some way connected 
with them. By his probable acquisition of his 
greatest prize, he had been led to recognize as 
well the value of his other possessions. 

As now he took his usual walk through the 
paths which he had learned to love so well, the 
world seemed an attractive home beyond com- 
parison or expression. No brush seemed adequate 
to depict any of its wondrous scenes; no words 
could tell of its delights, nor pen describe its 
w^onderful effects. The soul alone could conceive 
and understand it. 

Now, as he lay upon the bank of the crystal 
stream, its waters appeared to flow more rapidly, 
as in an exuberance of joy. He envied the birds 
that could so easily give utterance to the felicitous 
dreams which he shared but could not express. 
And these sweet sounds afforded a diapason for 
the trees and brook that joined their notes in 
harmony. 

Where, thought he, as he now looked about 


52 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


him, was there in this great and beautiful world 
a spot where sorrow would find even the briefest 
tenancy? In this place surely it could find no 
home. It had no form which could be reflected 
in the limpid stream, that mirrored but the beau- 
ties of the surrounding scene. Nor could it pen- 
etrate the mountain bank whose silvery crest 
returned the cheerful greetings of the sun. Each 
day furnished an additional leaf in a chronicle of 
happy times, and seemed but a harbinger of 
brighter days to come. 

Thus time passed, and three weeks had almost 
elapsed. Meantime, in deference to her wish, he 
had refrained from broaching the subject, and was 
content with the tacit understanding that existed 
between them. 

A few days before the expiration of the period 
allotted for Frank Grammell’s return, the transac- 
tion of business relating to his interests in the 
east required his presence at the ofiice of a solic- 
itor in the city, and he thought that would be 
the best time to go. For it was clear that his 
disinclination to leave Gertrude would be by no 
means werkened when she would indeed be his. 

Resolving, therefore, not to throw any obsta- 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


53 


cles in the way of a speedy adjustment of his 
business, he left for the city, after taking leave of 
Gertrude. The first task to secure his attention 
was the procurement of a ring, a beautiful soli- 
taire, designed for his prospective bride. This 
done, he proceeded to attend to the business 
which had necessitated his presence in the city. 

During his visit at the lawyer’s office, he met 
a friend from the east, and there ensued a lengthy 
conversation, in the course of which the. latter, 
greatly surprised to find Chester in this locality, 
made inquiries regarding it. It was a place that 
had now become very dear to Chester, and he 
readily entered into greater detail than was re- 
quired by his interlocutor. At the mention of the 
name of the little settlement, his friend reflected 
for a moment, then remarked that he knew some- 
one who resided there. 

‘ ‘ That is not his home now, but it used to be, ’ ’ 
he said, “and he is on his way here nov\^’’ . 

Chester arose from his seat and paced twice 
across the room ; then pausing in his walk, in a 
voice which revealed none of his intense interest 
in the subject, he asked the name of the traveler; 
and learned— what he had already surmised — 


54 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


that it was Frank Grammell. He learned further- 
more that Grammell would not be there before the 
lapse of another week. 

The conversation with reference to Grammell 
was of the most informal character. The infor- 
mation given was rendered in a brief and inciden- 
tal way. Nevertheless it occasioned him a feeling 
of uneasiness, which gradually developed into an 
oppressive anxiety. For it seemed a strange 
fatality that had contrived his return at such an 
inopportune time after an absence of so many 
years. 

True, he would not arrive at his destination 
before the expiration of the period allowed him. 
True also that, within that time, Gertrude could 
have no knowledge or hint of his coming, if he 
himself would maintain silence; and that her 
promise to him, conditional during this time, 
would in the interval become a binding vow. 
Yet it might be that Gertrude, when apprised of 
her former lover’s continued faithfulness, would 
give him an opportunity to present himself, and 
his claims, if he desired, before forming another tie. 

The problem which then presented itself for his 
consideration was if, under the circumstances, it 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


55 


was not his duty to reveal to her the fact which 
had accidentally come to his knowledge. Certain 
it was, that were he to say nothing, no one would 
ever suspect that he had possessed the informa- 
tion in question, for the conversation had 
evidently produced not even a momentary impres- 
sion upon his informant, and would soon leave 
his memory. But this reflection exerted no 
influence upon the determination of this question. 
The whole subject was not one open to a pro- 
longed doubt, nor was there any hesitation on 
his part after a brief and careful reflection. Jus- 
tice to his rival alone necessitated a revealment 
of the truth. His duty to Gertrude required it, 
for she was entitled to a knowledge of all the facts 
before arriving at a final decision, and justice to 
himself demanded it. 

It was impossible for him to foretell the result of 
such a disclosure upon a girl of her disposition. 
He had the knowledge that she reciprocated his 
love, and the day of their marriage, fixed upon a 
condition which was no longer looked- upon by 
her as an impediment, had been approximately 
set. Yet, from his study of her nature, he knew 
that the hopes and cares of others were not 


56 


sunbeams and shadows. 


ignored by her, but struck ever a responsive 
chord in her heart, upon which they became 
firmly impressed. He knew that, even if her 
affections had been forever alienated from the 
lover of her youthful days, his faithfulness and 
devotion, indicated by his return, could not be 
disregarded by her. After all, however, the fact 
remained that he and Gertrude loved each other, 
and it was a reasonable inference that, upon learn- 
ing this, Mr. Grammell would abandon an}^ 
claim which he might otherwise be disposed to 
assert. 

But, whatever the result, he deemed it his duty 
to reveal the truth. His conduct towards Ger- 
trude in particular must be untainted by any 
refuge to concealment or a lack of candor. A 
very brief consideration sufficed to arrive at a 
definite and unalterable conclusion. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

■ The eventful day had now arrived; and, 
with a purpose well defined, Chester Bellmore 
wended his footsteps through the forest to the 
home of his love. It was a beautiful day in 
early summer — a day on which one finds delight 
in walking along a pebbly beach and gazing 
upon dancing waters — in rambling through the 
woods, while new leaves impart to the trees 
another lease of youth; in reclining upon a 
mossy bank and in waves of downy grass. 

If his surroundings were at all emblematic of 
his fate, the augury w^as in truth a bright one; 
and, as he proceeded on his way, his misgivings, 
which had met at best but an inhospitable enter- 
tainment, w’ere speedily dismissed. The one, the 
only gift for which he longed was now within 
his grasp. The appearance of his rival at this 
time was indeed singular, but could not be re- 
garded by him to be of any especial significance, 
p'or, after all, his claims were not of a character 
to establish an enduring tie, none such as an hon- 


58 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


orable man would not, under the circumstances, 
readily relinquish. And now Chester entertained 
no doubt but the consummation which he desired 
would be effected without any serious embarrass- 
ment. 

Gertrude was expecting him. She did not 
wait for his entrance to the cottage, but ran to 
meet him under a great pine that extended its 
branches over its youthful kin. As he advanced, 
with outstretched hands, she placed her own into 
them, and there allowed them to remain, while 
she met his eager glance for a moment, then 
blush ingly averted her eyes. 

He understood the import of this greeting. He 
was fully answered. He knew now that his love 
was returned. 

The information which he must then reveal now 
assumed an unpleasant form, and he made haste 
to perform his burdensome duty. 

“Gertrude,” he .said, while he still retained 
her hands, and gazed upon her blushing face, 
“ 3^ou said that on this da}^ you would be mine, 
if your old friend would not return. He has not 
returned, he is not here. But, tell me, dear, if 
you were informed that he is now on his way to 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


59 


this place, that in a few days at most he would 
arrive ” 

He paused, as Gertrude started back, as though 
in affright, and withdrew her hands from his clasp. 

“You do not mean,’' she commenced, then 
paused. 

. “Yes, while I was away, I learned that he was 
on his way and would be here soon.” 

• For the first time he saw a shadow cross the 
face of the girl. Her cheerful expression had 
yielded to a serious, troubled look. She was 
quiet. Soon, however, she looked up with a smile. 

‘ ‘ His coming will make no difference, ’ ’ she 
said. ‘ ‘ He intends to visit his old home, as any 
one would; to see again places where he .spent 
many pleasant hours. He does not think of me 
any more ; he has not written to me for a long 
time. But, even if he did, he would not make 
any claim after learning the truth. Don’t you 
think it right, though, that we wait a few days 
for his coming ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Bellmore, without hesitation, 
“it is his due. But, as he is already in this 
vicinity, it is quite possible for him to put in his 
appearance very soon. This he will certainly do. 


60 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


if he entertains an idea to advance any further 
claims. ’ ’ 

“True,” said Gertrude, “and we will give 
him just one week. But you can be sure, as I 
am, that his coming will make no difference.” 

She extended her hand as she spoke, and he 
took it and pressed it between his own. When 
he left her, but little remained to be said between 
them on that subject. Notwithstanding the delay 
which circumstances appeared to require, the 
understanding between them seemed to be per- 
fect, and any further step but a mere formality. 
However, he would wait another week before 
claiming the prize which he now firmly believed 
to be his own. 

He was more contented than he would have 
been by an unconditional acceptance on her part. 
For the innate sense of justice that had impelled 
him to respect the rights of his rival had also led 
him to expect a recognition by her of her early 
lover’s rights; and her ignorement of the latter 
would have apprised him of a mistake in his 
estimate of her character — a possibility which he 
had not even contemplated. 

And Gertrude, though assailed by a momentary 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


61 


doubt of his great love in the face of the revela- 
tion made by him, understood and appreciated 
his act and his motive. She was pleased .at the 
transpirement, as it had afforded her additional 
knowledge of his character and methods. Aside 
from these immediate effects, the return of Frank 
Grammell had up to this time been attended with 
no circumstance of importance. 

As eagerly as Chester had formerly hoped for 
his rival’s continued absence and silence, more 
anxiously did he now await his coming. For 
that he would come within the week was certain , 
and the sooner he would arrive the sooner would 
the only impediment to the culmination of his 
own plans be removed. 

A day went by, and still another, without 
bringing any news of Grammell, and it occurred 
to Chester that, for a lover, Grammell was pro- 
ceeding with extraordinary deliberateness. Ger- 
trude was probably right in saying that his 
return was designed to be merely a visit to the 
home of his youth, and he must have forgotten 
all about his love, as his slow movements, after 
such a prolonged absence, could be accounted for 
upon no theory suggesting the influence of an 


62 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


absorbing passion. It was certain that his course 
did not entitle him to any consideration after the 
lapse pf the week accorded him. 

Whether or no he would come within the time 
extended, it was tacitly understood between Bell- 
more and Gertrude that this was the final period 
of waiting, and that, at the close of the week, 
delay would make its exit. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


63 


CHAPTER VII. 

On the fourth day of the week, Mr. Trevlyn 
was seated alone in the cottage. Gertrude had 
gone forth for a stroll, possibly with no intention 
to avoid Chester Bellmore, and the old man, left 
alone, busied himself in the perusal of a book 
until he heard a tap at the door. Thinking it 
was one of the wood-cutters, — the only visitors 
that ever came there, except Chester — he went to 
the door, and, on opening it, was surprised to find 
before him a face which, at first glance, was not 
at all familiar to him. But the visitor apparently 
had no difficulty in recognizing him, and extended 
his hand, which the old man accepted with some 
hesitation. 

‘ ‘ You do not know me, Mr. Trevlyn ? Have I 
changed so much ?’ ’ 

“Ah ! I recognize you now. You are Frank 
Grammell.” 

‘ ‘ Right. I did not think that you would for- 
get me so soon. I wonder if Gertrude will know 

> f 


me. 


04 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


“She may, and yet she may not. You have 
undergone quite an alteration; from a boy, you 
have grown to be a man of the world. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I have seen a great deal of the world 
since I saw you last, yet you see I remember my 
old friends. How is Gertrude?” 

‘ ‘ She too has changed since you last met. ” 

‘ ‘ She must be a woman now. ’ ’ 

“ That is one of the changes that have taken 
place.” 

For some reason which he would have been 
unable, if required, to define, Grammell was not 
entirely pleased with his host’s replies. His 
words appeared to bear a covert meaning, which 
the young man could not understand. 

“ What do you mean, Mr. Trevlyn?” he in- 
quired. “What other changes are you talking 
about? Surely she is not married?” 

“No.” 

“Nor engaged?” 

“These are strange questions at this point of 
our interview,” said the old man. 

“ But, under the circumstances, I hope you do 
not regard them as out of the way. 

“ What circumstances?” 










>JC* .•>: ^ 


:r '^■ 


m 


i-r'mms Mmam 'J w . '^Mtysy' 




“ You do uot know me, Mr. Trevlyn ? ” 


- page 63. 




SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


65 


^‘You will remember that Gertrude and I 
promised, when I left here, to wait five years for 
each other. I have kept that agreement honor- 
ably, and I have no doubt she has.” 

‘ ‘ Then why do you raise the doubt implied by 
your question?” 

“ It was a hasty question, a mistake, and I beg 
your pardon.” 

” Granted. But tell me, now that you recall 
that arrangement made between you as children, 
is it your purpose to adhere to it ? ” 

” If I like her as well as I expect to, you will 
find that the change in my circumstances will 
make no difference. ” 

The reply did not appear to produce a favora- 
ble impression upon Mr. Trevlyn. Gram- 
niell’s words and manner indicated that in 
his mind it was a foregone conclusion that Ger- 
trude would accept him, and that the decision of 
the entire matter rested with him. Then, too, 
they implied that he looked upon his return under 
his present circumstances as an act of magnan- 
imity for which he expected due commendation. 
But for another purpose, the reply was pleasing 


5 


66 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


to the old man. He abruptly changed the 
subject. 

‘ ‘ How did you succeed in the world which you 
were so anxious to enter?” 

” Finely,” said Grammell, ” I made a great 
deal of money and expect to make much more. V 
. ‘ ‘ And how in other respects ?” 

“ What other respects ? I don’t know what you 
mean.” 

‘ ‘ Is the accumulation of money the only evi- 
dence and object of a successful life?” 

” No, not the only, but it is the chief object. 
There are other things we want besides money; 
we want name, position and friends, but all are 
to be had for money. ” 

” In the course of your experience you may 
find, if you have not already learned this fact, 
that there are some things we want that 
money can never procure for us. Though we 
own a kingdom, existence may then be misera- 
ble.” 

” I do not understand you. Will you explain?’ ’ 

” Yes. I have in mind the career of a friend 
in by-gone days when we both were 3^oung. He 
worshipped a beautiful girl, and was loved in 


SUNB:eAMS AND SHADOWS. 


67 


return. Poverty was the only obstacle. Not- 
withstanding the opposition of her parents, she 
promised to wait for him until fortune would 
reward his efforts. Taking advantage of a favor- 
able opportunity which presented itself as an 
alluring means to the attainment of his purpose, 
he went abroad to acquire a fortune. In two 
years, he succeeded beyond his wildest expecta- 
tions, and returned to claim his own. But his 
hopes were vain. She was betrothed to another. 
His love was the noble passion that endures 
with life, — a depth of feeling of which she was 
incapable. Freely and without constraint, she 
had pledged her hand to another. My friend, 
after seeing her and learning the truth, left 
again for foreign lands. A brief note apprised me 
of his course. ‘ I am going away, ’ he wrote, ‘ to 
distant lands, no matter where. ’ Since then I 
have not heard of him.’’ 

The last words were almost inaudible. The 
old man had fallen into a reverie, from which the 
words of the other soon awoke him. 

“ He probably killed himself,” said Grammell, 
in a matter of fact tone. 

The old man looked at him with surprise and 


68 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


impatience. The story, a recollection of which 
had affected him deeply, had evidently produced 
no imprevSsion upon the latter. 

“ No,” replied Mr. Trevlyn. “ If that was his 
design, it was not necessary for him to go abroad 
to execute it. But to recur now to a subject 
evidently of more interest to you, you have 
become wealthy. Now, what use have you made 
of the opportunities which 5^our wealth has 
afforded you?” 

“ In what way? 

‘ ‘ A study of the world and all that it con- 
tains.” 

‘‘I have no confidence in the merits of that 
kind of study,” said Grammell. “That is too 
wide a field. I think the best thing a man can 
do is to study what is best for himself and his 
business. It isn’t good to know too much.” 

To the old man, it was quite evident that his 
companion was not thus afflicted. 

‘ ‘ Mr. Grammell, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ I would like to 
obtain some information from you.” 

“You are welcome to all that I can give.” 

“ Before I sought this lonely retreat, I had lost 
all interest in the world. Previous to that time. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


69 


however, I had taken a great interest in its pro- 
gress, and its strides in recent years, I suppose, 
have been enormous. It is not a desire to enter 
that life again that prompts me now to question 
you. It may be idle curiosity on my part. 
Whatever it is, I would like to know what pro- 
gress it has made in various branches. ” 

‘ ‘ Its progress has been wonderful. ’ ’ 

“ In what respect? ” 

“In all respects.” 

“ First then as to art, in which I was most in- 
terested. Have any new artists of note appeared 
of late? ” 

“ A great many.” 

‘ ‘ Who are they ? ’ ’ 

“ As to that, I cannot tell. I never was much 
interested in pictures, if that is what you mean. ’ " 
“You are more interested in literature and 
science ? ’ ’ 

“ Well, I must confess, my tastes do not run 
in that direction. After all, it is only a matter 
of taste.” 

“Very true. Some people like books, others 
like their leather covers, and still others think 


70 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


more of the sheep which provided the materials 
for the covers. ’ ’ 

Grammell looked at the old man with a sus- 
picion, by no means groundless, that he was the 
target at which the latter aimed. But, as he 
realized that in any debate on these lines he 
would be at a disadvantage, he wisely resolved to 
conceal his resentment. 

“Do you expect Gertrude soon?” he inquired, 
after a brief pause in their conversation. 

“ She will probably be home in an hour.” 

“ If you will excuse me, Mr. Trevlyn, I shall 
take a short walk in the neighborhood. Mean- 
time, if Gertrude returns before me, you can 
safely tell her that if she ever suspected that I for- 
got her, she did not know me.” 

Again the manner and expression accompany- 
ing his words were extremely displeasing to 
Mr. Trevlyn. Grammell evidently believed that 
the hold he had gained upon the young girl’s 
heart in the years gone by would become firmly 
established by his acquisition of a fortune and a 
worldly knowledge and experience. 

The old man was right. It never occurred to 
Grammell that Gertrude could, in the inter- 


sunbeams and shadows. 


71 


val, have seen another who had replaced him 
in her esteem. And he entertained no doubt 
but that, if he would decide to make her his wife 
— a step which now presented itself only as a 
probability to him — the prospect of a city life, in 
comfort and a fair degree of affluence, would be 
anything but repellent to her. From this line of 
reasoning, he found no difficulty in evolving the 
conclusion that the decision of the question rested 
entirely with him, and that the fate of Gertrude 
was therefore in his hands. 

While he did not feel constrained, by a concep- 
tion of his duty, to adhere unconditionally to the 
compact made between them years ago, ^le still 
entertained the intention to make her his wife if 
her merits should entitle her to that distinction. 
In this course, he was actuated by no uncommon 
motive. He had acquired wealth and the power 
that wealth carries with it, and he liked to have 
that power recognized. This feeling manifested 
its influence upon his acts in various ways. On 
different occasions, he contributed generously to 
charitable enterprises; never when his aid was 
sought merely as advantageous in co-operation 
with others, but always when the success of 


72 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


the movement was dependent solely upon 
his contribution. In the line of this conduct, 
it was his desire to wed a girl in the posi- 
tion of Gertrude, a country girl, without means 
or station, with which he would enrich her. 
All opportunities to win the hand of a wealthy 
girl had been foregone by him. 

The fact that he lacked a reasonable education 
in all the branches suggested by the inquiries of 
Mr. Trevlyn did not appear to him in the guise 
of a shortcoming. To his mind, his success with- 
out such knowledge demonstrated clearly that in 
his case it was dispensable. 

But, as he now emerged from the cottage, he 
was conscious of a feeling of disappointment, and 
encountered no difficulty in tracing it to its cause. 
He had regarded his step, in returning, despite 
the excellent opportunities and temptations 
which would have allured other men to different 
paths, as a course noble and magnanimous beyond 
all precedent. He had expected Gertrude — and 
more certainly her father, by reason of his wider 
experience — to view his conduct in the same 
light; and the indifference and evident lack of 
appreciation of the latter were the causes of his 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 73 

present feelings of doubt and vexation. Ger- 
trude, bethought, would not exhibit the ingrati- 
tube and obtuseness of her father. Sould she do 
so, her doom was .sealed. He would depart with 
more avidity than he had come. 


74 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

For nearly an hour he walked along in paths 
through which he had strolled a thousand times 
in the past. The scenes had in the interim un- 
dergone no change,, yet they scarcely attracted 
his attention. Sights intimately connected with 
his earliest associations failed to create a vibra- 
tion of his pulse. Places where the happiest 
hours of his childhood had been passed received 
but a momentary attention. 

He wondered how he could ever have been 
content to lead this primitive life, and congratu- 
lated himself upon the attainment of a higher 
aspiration. Whatever he might conclude to do, it 
was certain that the result would be impeded by 
no delay on his part. He would act promptly, 
and should he resolve to make Gertrude his 
wife, he was certain that he would relieve her of 
a life which could only be a source of tedium and 
monotony. 

He returned to the cottage, to find that she 
had not yet returned, and he resumed his con- 










He stopped to listen to a song 


page 75 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


75 


versation with Mr. Trevlyn. While he was 
speaking, the sound of a sweet voice came to his 
ears, and he stopped abruptly to listen to a song, 
which became more and more audible as the 
songstress approached the cottage. 

Not like Chester Bellmore — who found en- 
trancing music in her voice, expressed in song or 
words — did it impress Grammell. But, in so far 
as his nature would permit, he was affected by it, 
and was eager to behold its owner. 

Gertrude ran hastily towards her father, but 
stopped when she discovered the presence of 
another; and, as she looked upon him for a 
moment before dropping her gaze, the blood 
receded from her face, and left her pale and agi- 
tated, almost trembling. 

Grammell regarded her attentively. The child 
whom he had last seen there had developed into 
an exceedingly graceful and beautiful young girl. 
She seemed wonderfully nurtured for a country 
flower. 

As then he now looked upon her, his first 
impression was that he would find his sacrifice to 
have brought its reward. In fact, she exceeded 
in every respect all the expectations he had 


76 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


formed concerning her. If her youth gave any 
promise of the result observed at this period of 
her maturity, its indications had been beyond his 
perception. 

For some moments, they stood there in silence. 
Both were evidently embarrassed. Before seeing 
her he had decided what to do, but now he hesi- 
tated. He would not greet her as his betrothed 
wife, even should he resolve to marry her, until 
she would be fully appreciative of the honor thus 
to be conferred upon her. Now that they were 
actually face to face, it seemed to him, for some 
reason which he was unable to analyze, that 
advances of this character were certainly not 
expected, if indeed they would not be repelled. 
Yet that consideration did not militate against 
his preconceived idea of his own importance. On 
the contrary, to it he ascribed the occasion of her 
timidity. 

Gertrude was assailed by a variety of conflict- 
ing emotions. Had he returned four months 
earlier, she would have extended an eager wel- 
come to the companion of her childhood, if not a 
greeting to him as a lover. But the change that 
had in the meantime occurred in her career had 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


77 


led her to regard his visit at this time with a 
slight misgiving, notwithstanding the explana- 
tion which she had advanced to Chester as to the 
purpose of his return. Hence her constraint in 
his presence. But the silence that ensued was 
not of long duration. He was the first to speak. 

“ Gertrude/’ he said half interrogatively, “ you 
do not remember me.” 

“Yes, I certainly do, ” said Gertrude, as she 
now advanced and extended her hand to him, 
“ and I am very glad that you have not forgot- 
ten us. ’ ’ So saying, she withdrew her hand from 
his clasp. 

Now she was herself again. A brief pause had 
enabled her to collect her thoughts. She recalled 
the fact that he was her old friend, and the faith- 
fulness attested by his return ought certainly to 
merit recognition, to the preclusion of disap- 
pointment or censure. In consequence, she was 
very cordial and considerate in her treatment of 
him. Yet Grammell was not satisfied with the 
character of his reception, none the more because 
unable to assign a ground for his dissatisfaction. 

As for Gertrude, she soon became convinced by 
his manner of the correctness of her belief that 


78 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


the purpose of his visit was to see his old home 
and friends again, and that he had no especial 
object of attraction there. Her friendly senti- 
ments towards him were therefore strengthened 
by a feeling of fervent gratitude. . 

“Forgotten you ?’’ he repeated. “ No more 
than I would expect you to forget me. You have 
changed considerably, Gertrude. Do you see any 
change in me ?” 

“Yes, in your appearance, your voice, your 
manner, your speech, your ” 

“Stop! Stop! You won’t recognize me if you 
notice any more changes.” 

‘ ‘ I might have expected them. It is a long 
time since we last met.” 

“Yes, five 5^ears.“ 

‘ ‘ More than five years, ’ ’ said Gertrude. 

“Only a few days; but thal is of no import- 
ance. ” 

Gertrude made no reply. Her last words had 
not been designed to carry with them any especial 
significance, and at this time she did not care to 
enter into a discussion of the effect that those 
additional days might produce. 


sunbkams and shadows. 


79 


‘ ‘ After so long an absence you ought to have 
much to tell me,” he said. 

‘ ‘ And you, who have seen so much more 
within that time, must have more to tell.” 

Mr. Trevlyn had withdrawn. 

She invited Grammell to be seated, and they 
had a lengthy conversation, pertaining, in the 
first place, to certain incidents of their childhood, 
and then to his personal experiences, which were 
of a decidedly prosaic nature. 

For a time, Gertrude manifested in his narra- 
tion a deep interest, which, however, he was 
unable to retain. She could not avoid the reflec- 
tion that the scenes of his early home did not 
appeal to him with any force, and the events 
related by him were all of a personal nature. 
She longed to hear about the world of which she 
had read so much, its wonderful cities, its attrac- 
tive people and its fascinating life. He neither 
understood nor gratified her desire. 

His efforts to impress her with his extensive 
worldly knowledge and experience were, in con- 
sequence, unsuccessful. To her, he seemed to 
study the world through glasses which bedimmed 
his sight. His worldly views, unrelieved by a 


80 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


requisition upon any imaginative power, elicited 
no sympathy from her, and their conversation, 
therefore, lacked the charm which his distant 
adventures might otherwise have possessed. 

But Grammell, while he devoted his powers to 
the production of a most favorable impression, 
was not unmindful of her influence over him. 
To say that he loved the young girl at their first 
meeting at this time would be incorrect, by reason 
of their former acquaintanceship and pledges of 
affection. But, as he acknowledged to himself, 
had they met that day as strangers, her conquest 
of him would have been complete. 

One of the chief charms of Gertrude, that could 
not fail to attract attention, was her voice. 
Usually low and melodious, when it was raised, 
out of doors, above a conversational tone, it pos- ‘ 
sessed a clear, ringing, musical quality that re- 
minded its hearers of the chimes of a sweet-toned 
bell. And to hear that voice in words that ex- 
pressed the thoughts of an intelligent mind, had, 
in Bellmore’s case, proved captivating. 

In a less degree, Grammell yielded to its influ- 
ence. But what was far more pleasing to him 
was the astonishing alteration which time had 



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•-S. 






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<• Iff* '* 


.!4ES^. 


“ Not to-day/' she said, amid her sobs 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 81 

wrought in her appearance, And the fact that 
she had acquired an education not expectable in 
view of her surroundings, enhanced her value in 
his eyes, notwithstanding his own lack of that 
advantage. 

For he was one of the class of persons who 
believe, in all .sincerity, that a higher education 
is necessary only in the absence of wealth, as a 
partial atonement therefor. 

Ability, he argued, is superior to education, 
and ability is best demonstrated by the posses- 
sion of that for which the whole world known to 
him strove — money. A man of that bent of mind, 
even when he lays no claim to exceptional erudi- 
tion, is never quite aware of the extent of his 
ignorance; and, even if so aware, this knowledge 
scarcely tends to weaken his self-respect. He 
found the possession of an education by others 
requisite, to bring them up to his level; and, for 
this reason, was pleased when he heard her 
express sound opinions, many of which he did 
not comprehend but in which he had the gracious- 
ness to concur. He also advanced views of his 
own, which would have been indisputably correct 
had they been applied to more appropriate sub- 


0 


82 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


jects. Sometimes Gertrude could not understand 
him. At first she attributed her failure to do so 
to her own inexperience; but gradually, as they 
touched ground frequently covered by her in 
dialogues with others whom she could understand, 
she was constrained to lodge the fault with his 
own meaning, and then was led to doubt that his 
words at all times had a meaning. Whatever 
might have been the truth in that regard, there 
was certainly broad ground for a difference of 
opinion. 

But what surprised and shocked her more than 
this was the apparent absence of all imaginative 
power from his mental composition. In referring 
to various episodes in their early career, the sites 
which awoke within her the dearest memories of 
her happy childhood aroused no interest in him. 
Whenever he recalled an incident of those days, 
he attached no importance whatever to its loca- 
tion. For aught that his words revealed to the 
contrary, it might as well have transpired in the 
least romantic city upon earth. An instance will 
suffice. She inquired if he had seen certain loca- 
tions most familiar in their past rambles, and 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


83 


perceived from his answers that he had entirely 
forgotten their existence. 

In view of these discoveries, it followed that 
the respect which she had theretofore entertained 
for all that she had met could not be accorded 
him in full measure, nor was it at all strange that 
she was led to wonder how she could ever have 
thought of him as highly as she had until that 
day. Had they mel then for the first time or 
under different circumstances, his shortcomings 
might not have been so unpleasantly noticeable; 
but their past relations lent occasion for the 
introduction of subjects which revealed his faults 
in a most conspicuous light. 

The natural result of their meeting under 
these conditions was a decided change of the 
position which each had formerly occupied in 
the estimation of the other. His admiration for 
her increased as steadily as her regard for him 
dimini.shed. He wondered how he could ever 
for a moment during his absence have contem- 
plated the idea of a cancellation of a compact 
which, according to the construction dictated by 
his present desire, he deemed a binding agree- 
ment of marriage, She, on the other hand. 


84 


sunbea:\is and shadows. 


marvelled that a hero could ever have been 
created in her thoughts from such doubtful 
material, and the prospect of her entire future, 
spent with him, if it occurred to her now at all, 
presented only a cheerless and unpromising 
aspect. 

Up to this time, however, the subject had not 
been mentioned between them, and she ardently 
hoped it would not be. For silence would in 
this connection be quite as expressive as all the 
words which could be utilized to sever any ties 
which could still be implied to exist between 
them. But this did not conform to his design, 
and soon he resolved to speak. 

“ Gertrude,” he said ” it is probably unneces- 
sary to recall to your mind our last meeting and 
our compact, because you can hardly have for- 
gotten them. Now I want to tell you that the 
changes in my condition in life never made any 
difference; if any one thought so, it was a mis- 
take; and I ask you now to share all that I have, 
the fortune that I made and will make, with me. 
You only have to name the time.” 

A partial surprise combined with a general 
feeling of embarrassment to prevent an immediate 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


85 


reply by Gertrude. The answer which she had, 
before his coming, framed to meet this emergency, 
was now found wanting. All her womanly in- 
stincts forbade a prompt and unfeeling refusal. 
And now his frailties .and faults vanished from 
her sight. She remembered only that his last 
words proved him to be faithful and honorable, 
and willingly she seized upon the good traits thus 
revealed by him. 

“You are very kind,” she said. “ I remem- 
ber you now as you always were, good and gen- 
erous, and I am grateful. But — but the compact 
— the compact ” 

She stopped, turned away, and broke into a 
flood of tears. 

Amazed and speechless, he awaited the end of 
this singular outburst, but it did not come very 
soon, and he did not wait long. Her feelings, 
whatever they might be, he could not understand 
nor rOvSpect, and he was swayed only by the 
misgiving that had now taken possession of him. 

“ Gertrude, what do you mean by this strange 
conduct? Try to explain, because I am sure I 
can’t understand it.” 

But the effect of these exceptional conditions 


86 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


rendered her incapable at the time to .speak 
calmly otj any subject, and he was compelled to 
wait until she spoke. ^ 

“Not to-day, ' ’ she said, amid her sobs, ‘ ‘please 
leave me, as you are kind; leave me, and come 
to-morrow.” 

This V' as a request which could not be disre- 
garded. Half angrily, he arose, and, with a few 
words of leave, departed. 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


87 


CHAPTER IX. 

This, the first time that she had ever been con- 
fronted by a problem the solution of which in- 
volved such great consequences, might have been 
vastly more troublesome but for certain reflections 
w^hich presented themselves to her mind as soon 
as it re-established its equanimity. 

One of the first of these thoughts was that she 
would, if required by the necessities of the case to 
resort to aid, have a safe counsellor in her father, 
who had always been her trustworthy guide. 
And should circumstances render it proper and 
necessary to consult Bellmore, she knew that she 
could rely upon his opinion, regardless of his 
interest in the matter. The latter had gone to 
the city, and had not 3’'et returned. 

But, after all, thought she, it was not right to 
shift her responsibility; not right to Grammell, 
who was entitled to a respectful consideration of 
his claims, dependent entirely upon her state of 
feeling; and this was something which she alone 
could determine. In accordance with this belief, 


88 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


she resolved in the first place to adopt some plan, 
and, after deciding upon one truly and conscien- 
tiously, if she then required advice, to submit the 
matter to her father before freighting her acts 
with irremediable error. 

Having arrived at this conclusion, it became 
primarily necessary to investigate the state of her 
feelings, and here she experienced but little diffi- 
culty. For it was quite clear to her mind that, 
regardless of Chester Bell more’s connection with 
the matter, she never could love Frank Gramniell. 
His words and manner, which had produced any- 
thing but a favorable impression upon her during 
their conversation, were not recalled with any 
pleasurable recollections. His thoughts were 
evidently not of a high order; while of the pure 
sentiments which, freed from morbid feelings and 
fancies, are the leading characteristics of the 
noble mind, none could be traced to his possession. 
He viewed his surroundings only in relation to 
himself; they were important only as they affected 
him. However, as to all matters pertaining to 
his mentality, she would not be certain. She 
reasoned that she herself was an inexperienced 
girl, probabl}' more ignorant than she could judge 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


89 


without an opportunity to institute a comparison 
between herself and other girls; and their diverg- 
ence of views might properly be ascribable to her 
own misjudgment. But, even upon this assump- 
tion, it was evident that their thoughts were of an 
entirely different order, and that no bond of sym- 
pathy existed or could ever be established between 
them. Consequently, their relations could not 
always be in harmony, nor their aims in common. 

With this estimate of his character, she was 
firmly convinced that he could never gain her 
high respect and esteem, much less her love, 
whatever worthy attributes his future actions 
might disclose. Again and again she recalled 
the fact that he had for a long time occupied in 
her affections a place second only to that of her 
father, and she marvelled now that this could 
ever have been the case. Owing to her inexperi- 
ence, she could not perceive the reason, easily 
traceable to a natural longing for friendship and 
a proneness to avail herself of the best opportuni- 
ties presented in such a narrow field. But since 
then circumstances had wrought a change. 

This being true, it remained for her to make a 
frank disclosure of her feelings, and in her main 


X 


90 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


conclusion, she thought, he would probably con- 
cur. Then they would part, with none but kind 
feelings towards each other. 

Having thus decided, the next step was to con- 
sult her father, to whom she repeated, as accu- 
rately as she could, her interview with Grammell. 
Mr. Trevlyn appeared to find no difficulty in dis- 
posing of the matter as far as he was concerned. 
Neither doubt nor hesitation marked his words. 

‘ ‘ The first question for you to determine, Ger- 
trude,’* he said, “ is whether or not you would, 
in the absence of all past relations, freely and will- 
ingly accept him now, if his proposal were made 
to you for the first time; and I suppose it is per- 
fectly safe to answer this question in the negative?” 

Gertrude assented. 

“Then that is all there is to it, because the 
agreement made between you years ago no longer 
possesses any importance. Whatever force it may 
have had has been destroyed by him. In our 
first interview after his return, I tried to learn his 
position and he told me he proposed to abide by 
his agreement only if he would be satisfied with 
you. Had you not pleased him, he would not 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


91 


have been bound; and, if he does not please you, 
no more are 3^ou.” 

It had not occurred to Gertrude to enter upon 
any discussion of this question with Grammell, 
and yet the information was gratifying to her. 
But, easy as the disposition of this matter 
appeared to her father, it was most difficult and 
embarrassing to her. To reject an offer of mar- 
riage, based upon claims of love, is the most pain- 
ful task that can be presented to a refined woman. 
In this case, however, there was no alternative; 
and, although she shrank from the trying ordeal, 
she recognized the necessity tp meet it. Her 
difficulties were increased by the fact that her 
immediate position was without a precedent in 
her past experience. 

Led, by the influence of a general inclination, 
to see only the good traits revealed by Grammell, 
it required but a brief time to eliminate from her 
mind the unfavorable impressions produced by 
him ; and now she regarded him only with kind 
and friendly feelings. She judged him entirely 
from a recollection of their early association, 
and from the fidelity and devotion exhibited by 
him in the very offer which she was then consid- 


92 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


ering. Nevertheless, it was clear to her mind 
that she could give him no hope. Her father 
awaited, with great interest, the result, with but 
a slight opportunity to judge whether or not she 
possessed the firmness required by the occasion 
for the accomplishment of her purposes. 

After her conversation with her father, she was 
unusually silent and thoughtful that day. Never 
before had he seen her so serious. He observed 
the development of traits, the extent of which he 
had up to that time had no means to discover. 
At the same time, he was not afraid to trust her. 
He believed that she combined, with a gentle and 
pliant nature, a depth of character which could 
lend strong support to a worthy resolution, and 
relied upon the present occasion as a fair test. 

After making all possible allowances, her feel- 
ings for Grammell, although friendly, left room 
for no further doubt as to her actions. There 
was no high sentiment connected with them, no 
thought or feeling that could revive the relation 
that had subsisted in the past between them, and 
certainly none that could ensure its permanency. 
Knowing this to be a certain and unchangeable 
condition, it remained but for her, in making an 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


93 


explanation of the facts, to exercise the best tact 
which she could enlist in her service. Never 
having been called upon to exercise any unusual 
strength of resolution, it required exceptional 
efforts to evoke the requisite power in this 
instance. Several times after she had grasped 
the situation firmly and believed herself ready, 
there recurred to her the reflection that she might 
produce unhappiness in the life of a man who had 
been her friend, and whose request, denied by 
her, was but a privilege to render his friendship 
greater and more enduring. When assailed by 
this thought, her heart pleaded in his behalf, her 
strength deserted her, and she became irresolute. 
But no, this must not be; such doubts must be 
silenced; for, in her present state of feelings, she 
had no right to accept him, even if she would. 
A marriage under such circumstances could result 
only in disappointment. 

At length she was resolved; and now, with an 
earnestness unknown to her past, she awaited the 
arrival of her suitor. 


94 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER X. 

Meanwhile Grainiiiell had been giving some 
thought to the same subject; but his reasoning 
proceeded from entirely different premises and 
led to other results. 

For a time, he was troubled by a recollection 
of her remarkable outburst, following his offer 
of marriage. In his view, a proposal of that 
character called for no expression of grief or dis- 
tress, and tears were entirely inappropriate to the 
occasion. For a fleeting moment, he entertained 
the thought that his proposal might not have 
been pleasing to her, but he was speedily led to 
dismiss his apprehensions. Her display of emo- 
tion, he thought, must be accounted for by the 
fact that the offer presented a novelty in her ex- 
perience; therefore creating a situation for which 
she could not have been prepared. Moreover, 
he reflected, he did not thoroughly understand 
women, and tears served them under all circum- 
stances and in various capacities. Next day — he 
entertained no doubt — he would find her in a 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


95 


reasonable mood, which would ensure her appre- 
ciation and acceptance of his offer. 

One fact, however, appeared most clear, and that 
was, he really loved her. As yet there had been 
no occasion to test either the extent of his affec- 
tion or his capacity to love. He was certain that 
their marriage would be a happy one for him, and 
to this phase of the situation he devoted much 
attention. He did not stop to reflect upon her 
chances of happiness to be secured by the same 
step, for it never occurred to him that this was a 
matter open to any doubt, and he was quite con- 
tent to leave its determination to the future. 

Later in the day, he walked to the cottage. Jn 
response to his summons, Gertrude came to the 
door, and greeted him with a friendly smile. He 
entered, and conversed a few minutes with Mr. 
Trevlyn, who soon withdrew to his own room, 
leaving his daughter and her visitor alone. 

“ Gertrude,” said Grammell, after some conver- 
sation on indifferent subjects, “yesterday, when 
I spoke to you about our future, you were too 
excited to make any reply. I hope you have 
thought about the matter and can now give me 


an answer. 


90 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


He had always prided himself upon his knowl- 
edge of human nature, and thought that he knew 
Gertrude better than any one else. But now he 
was surprised to find that it was quite possible for 
the young girl, whom he had never in former 
times seen in a very serious mood, to be quite 
grave and thoughtful. A momentary pause 
followed his words; then she spoke, in a low but 
firm voice. 

“ We have,” she said, “ been friends from our 
early childhood, and we must — we shall remain 
friends until death. For that reason, I shall 
speak to you just as I used to do. Truly, I do 
not think that it were best for us to carry out 
the intentions which we entertained years ago.” 

Grammell heard these words with unconcealed 
surprise. He did not know exactly what con- 
struction to give them; all that appeared clear to 
him was the fact that the matter could not be 
arranged with the ease which he had expected. 

” Perhaps I do not understand you, Gertrude, 
or perhaps you do not understand me. Let me 
explain. I do not ask you to be my^ife because 
we made an engagement years ago, but I love 
you now, and want you to be mine.” 





Impossible ? Why ? 


Page 100. 






sunbeams and shadows. 97 

“ Indeed I am grateful, and honored by your 
choice, and I esteem and trust you as of old. But 
— but I know that such a step will not lead to 
your happiness nor to mine.” 

“ I say again, I cannot understand you. Why 
.shouldn’t it? Why should you doubt it? Per- 
haps you don’t understand what I offer. I prom- 
ised to work for you all these years and give you 
everything that you want, I have kept my 
promise and I have succeeded. I am in a posi- 
tion to secure everything for you. I have gained 
a good position and made a fortune, Gertrude, as 
I said I would, and I am ready and anxious to 
share them with you. Then why do you doubt 
that we shall be happy ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ You ask me for my hand. Were I to offer it, 
without my heart, you would regard it as a worth- 
less gift.” 

Now Grammell for the first time perceived the 
nature of the barrier in his path. But the objec- 
tion was to his mind of less importance than it 
appeared to be to her, and by no means seemed 
insuperable. 

He resolved to overcome it, for it had become 
very clear to him that he loved her more truly 


7 


98 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


and deeply than he had suspected. A feeling of 
wounded vanity, that prompted him to resent her 
failure to appreciate the advantages connected 
with his offer, was disregarded by him. The 
thought that was now foremost in his mind was 
to secure her, and other reflections and feelings 
were relegated for the time being to less impor- 
tant occasions. 

‘ ‘ I am not so unreasonable as to expect, ’ ’ he 
said, ‘ ‘ that you can now think of me as I think 
of you. I am willing to wait and win your love. 
I have no doubt I can and shall do it. I’ll be 
patient until then.” 

” I cannot ask you to wait until such a time, 
because I know that it will never be.” 

‘ ‘ I did not know that there was a strong dis- 
like that I had to overcome, but it seems— — ” 

‘ ‘ No, no, you wrong yourself and me. I must 
answer as I do, because I cannot give you that 
which I do not possess.” 

“Before you give me your answer,” said 
Grammell, “ let me put the question in another 
way. Of course, we can’t exactly agree in our 
opinions just now. A girl who is romantic and 
has no experience in things of that kind won’t 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


99 


look at it like a man of the world. I have seen 
a great deal of the world, and know that this 
ideal love we hear so much about brings on more 
trouble than anything else. And I know of 
many men whose wives didn’t claim to have 
much love for them, and yet they lived happy 
married lives. ’ ’ 

Reasonable as these views appeared to him, 
they were shocking to her, and in them she 
again recognized the absence in his being of the 
feelings which were an essential part of her 
existence. 

You know the world,” said she, ” and I do 
not; but I believe you are mistaken. How can 
a woman promise, in the most impressive moment 
of her life, to love and honor a man, well know- 
ing at the time that in her heart there is no love 
for him ? No, no. I cannot believe that there 
is one so untrue to her honor and her duty.” 

“You take an extreme view of it,” he said. 
‘‘But, Gertrude, if you believe that it is neces- 
sary for you to love me before you can give me 
your promise, it cannot be impossible for you to 
learn to love me again. You know you did it in 
the old times, and I have done nothing to change 


100 


SUN bp: AMS AND SHADOWS. 


your feelings. There must be a way to win your 
love again, and I’ll find it, if it costs my life.” 

Up to this time she had maintained the courage 
which she had summoned to her aid, but now it 
required strenuous efforts to prevent its desertion. 
She was deeply affected by his devotion. But 
the doubt which assailed her extended only to 
her choice of words; she did not waver in her 
resolution. Her silence inspired new hope in him. 

“I’ll not ask you for any answer now,” he 
said. “I’ll wait.” 

To tell him to wait was to bid him hope, and 
there was no room for hope. 

“ I cannot,” she said, “ I cannot give you any 
other answer. It is impossible.” 

‘ ‘ Impossible ? Why ?” 

She was silent. As he looked closely at her, 
she averted her blushing face, and a suspicion of 
the truth came to his mind. It had never 
occurred to him that, in this secluded spot, she 
could have found another lover, and now he was 
no less surprised than dismayed by the discovery. 
Gertrude made no reply to his last query. 

“ Can it be possible,” he said, “ that you have 
already given your love to some one else ?’ ’ 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


101 


Now she looked up quickly at him. 

“ Mr. Grammell, you ought not to have asked 
me that,” she said. “ And yet perhaps it is best 
that you know all. Then you will know why I 
cannot give you any other answer.” 

“Then it is so? Gertrude, how could you 
have done it ?” 

The voice in which these words were uttered 
and the expression upon his face proved the force 
of the shock which he had sustained. 

It had never occurred to Gertrude that her love 
required any apology; but now all other thoughts 
and feelings were overshadowed by sympathy 
with her friend. 

“Frank,” she said, taking his hand, “ I did 
not know that you cared for me. I thought that 
you had forgotten me. If I have done wrong, for- 
give me, and let us be friends, the best of friends, 
as we have always been.” 

Grammell sat there, speechless and unbending. 
He made no effort to retain her hand, wdiich, 
after resting a few moments on his own, was 
slowly withdrawn by her. 

“Oh! it is painful,” she said. “I never 
dreamed of this. I never thought that this could 


102 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


be. But what can I do ? You were my friend 
and adviser in the past; tell me, what can I do ?” 

You have another friend and adviser now,” 
he said, bitterly, ” and you don’t need my advice. 
You surely had forgotten my promise to return, 
and yours to wait for me.” 

“No, you must not think so.” 

‘ ‘ Then you looked upon them as mere child’s 
play.” 

For the first time in her life, Gertrude was 
offended, but she would not give utterance to any 
words of resentment. 

“ No,” was her answer, “ I did not. I prom- 
ised to wait five years for you, and I redeemed 
my promise. But, as to that, time can make no 
difference; because, even if our promise had been 
made for life, I would under the circumstances 
have asked you to release me and you would have 
done so.” 

‘ ‘ How do you know ? ’ ’ 

“ Because it would be right. In whatever 
way I may be blamable, I do not err in telling 
you the truth. I owed it as a duty to both of 
us.” 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


103 


Granimell was silent for a minute, during 
which he was absorbed in thought. 

“ Can it be possible,” he then said, “that you 
are the same girl that I left here years ago ? If 
you are, you’ve changed very much. You hadn’t 
any will to oppose any one then. You were the 
last person in the world to disappoint any one. 
And now you deny me what you had already 
promised me, and you won’t give me any chance 
to get it back if I can, and on this point you are 
as firm as if you’d spent your whole life in say- 
ing ‘no’ and ‘never.’ You have changed won- 
derfully.” 

This suggestion struck Gertrude with the force 
of a discovery. It had never occurred to her, 
and had never before been brought to her atten- 
tion. A brief rumination preceded her reply. 
She appeared to regard his words as an accusa- 
tion, as could be inferred from her words. 

“ I am not able to explain it,” she said. “ I 
do not know how it is. But perhaps, as you 
have made the discovery, you can also provide 
the explanation.” 

“ No, I can’t. I am surprised.” 

“I -think that I know it. This is the first 


104 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


time that I have ever been placed in this position. 
Perhaps, under the same circumstances years 
ago, I would have done the same thing. What 
else can I do? Can I ask you to await a change, 
when I know it is too late, that no change can 
ever take place ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then you will give me no hope ? ’ ’ 

“ I can give you my undying friendship and 
gratitude. I have no more to give.” 

She spoke in a subdued tone, but it lacked 
no earnestness. She was deeply pained to see the 
expression of despair that came to his face as he 
heard these words. 

He arose. Without a single word, he started 
slowly for the door with the intention to go; but 
Gertrude advanced and intercepted him. 

“Frank,” she said, “do not leave mein this 
way. If, by anything that I have said or done, 
I have wronged you, remember that I am an 
inexperienced girl, knowing nothing of the ways 
of the world. There is so much that I would like 
to say to you, if I only knew how; but — but — if 
I have wronged you, Frank, forgive me.” 

It was with a quavering voice that she pleaded 
for his pardon. He took her hands, but did not 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


105 


look at her. His eyes were fixed upon the floor. 

“ O, Gertrude, Gertrude!” was all he said; 
and, turning hastily away, he left her. 

Gertrude made no further move to stop him. 
The expression of his countenance revealed to her, 
for the first time, the state of his feelings. She 
was deeply impressed. She stood at the window, 
and gazed after his retreating form until it was 
out of sight. 


106 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Grammell had been answered, and his claim 
had been disposed of. The embarrassing question 
was now at rest, there was no one to come between 
her lover and herself ; and yet, when Mr. Trevlyn 
saw her about an hour after the close of her inter- 
view with Grammell, her face gave unmistakable 
evidence of the trouble that oppressed her. 

“Well, Gertrude, did you come to an under- 
standing? “ 

“Yes, I told him all,” she said. 

‘ ‘ And the matter was finally and satisfactorily 
arranged?” 

“Finally, yes.” 

‘ ‘ And not satisfactorily ? Why not ? What is 
wanting ? ” 

‘ ‘ More than I can tell. Papa, I did not think 
that he would care so much. I did not know 
that it would make him unhappy.” She spoke 
sadly and reflectively, as if in meditation, and her 
unusual gravity impressed her father with the 
full import of her words. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


107 


‘ ‘ Did it really affect him so much ? ” he in- 
quired. 

“Far more than I thought possible. Father, ’ ’ 
she said, with sudden energy, “tell me, have I 
done anything wrong ? I do not know the world, 
I cannot tell. Have I done wrong? ” 

‘ ‘ My pet, you have done the only thing which 
would have been proper under the circumstances, ” 
he said, gently stroking her hair. “Your act 
required no extensive knowledge of the world; it 
was demanded by plain principles of truth and 
honesty. You have done nothing to justify any 
self-reproach. On the other hand, if you had — 
even in the absence of other ties — accepted him, 
you would have done injustice to yourself and 
him. He ought to have the manliness to regard 
the matter in this Ijght, and should have accepted 
your decision with the calmness and fair-minded 
generosity of a gentleman, and withdrawn.” 

“ He surely did nothing wrong. If I have led 
you to believe otherwise, I have misrepresented 
him.” 

‘ ‘ Then try to dismiss the matter from your 
mind as quickly as possible. I know how it 
affects you, but, believe me, his experience is not 


108 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


at all exceptional. A man who is not prepared 
to meet disappointment in the path of expectation 
is unfitted for the walhs of life. As a man of the 
world, he must know that these situations are ot 
daily occurrence. A girl cannot be expected to 
return the love of every man who may fall in love 
with her, especially if there is more than one at a 
time, and men must learn to center their affec- 
tions upon objects which are attainable. If they 
cannot do that — if they are unable to direct their 
feelings, no more can they expect girls to direct 
their own at will. Now, if it were possible for 
you to return his love, there is another man who 
would be disappointed. I see you know whom I 
mean. Again, if, under the present circumstan- 
ces, you should, under a mistaken sense of duty, 
accept him, what would be ^the result ? You 
would be the loser, and Grammell would not be 
a gainer, for an unloving wife is an acquisition of 
doubtful value.” 

By this argument, and the introduction of 
another in their conversation at this point, he 
succeeded in investing Gertrude with a more 
cheerful frame of mind. But his success was only 
partial; for after leaving him, she was again 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


109 


attacked by the same doubts and scruples. She 
resolved to go out for a stroll, to be alone under 
the inspiring influences which had so frequently 
directed her actions in the past. 

What had she done? She had deliberately 
rejected a man the sincerity of whose professions 
could not be questioned, for his feelings had en- 
dured the test of years; and, by so doing, she 
had rendered the faithful companion of her child- 
hood’s days unhappy. 

Then she reflected that it was an unfortunate 
state of affairs, presenting no hope of any change 
or remedy. Although he had expressed his 
willingness to receive her hand even if unaccom- 
panied by her love, she would not give herself to 
him under such conditions. Here she was led to 
wonder how he could ever have advanced a pro- 
posal of this character. Surely he must, if seri- 
ous, have acted on the belief that the future 
would secure her love for him; and this she 
knew to be impossible. Reflection seemed use- 
less. There was no alternative which reason 
could fairly submit to her. 

She entered a lane that had been traversed in 
her daily journeys. But to-day she ignored a 


110 


SUNBEAMS And shadows. 


recollection of its existence during all that time, 
save the thought that this was the very place 
that had, five years ago, witnessed the exchange 
of promises between them. She walked onward, 
and various spots recalled incidents and associa- 
tions of her early youth, when their knowledge 
of the world had scarcely extended beyond an 
imperfect knowledge of themselves, and each had 
been so much to the other. She was startled 
now to find that those impressions had been sup- 
planted in their influence by more recent occur- 
rences. 

But it was a sad retrospect. It brought her 
mind to a full realization of the gravity of her 
position. These scenes were far more potent than 
his words to woo her. 

But, as other thoughts were suggested by her 
surroundings, she was again reminded of the 
divergence in their paths. These sights, endeared 
to her by the ties of tender recollections, aroused 
no interest in him, and therefore failed to mould 
a touch of sympathy between them. On the 
contrary, they tended to recall more clearly to 
her mind the dissimilarity of their views and 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


Ill 


sentiments in relation to things by which her life 
was so largely influenced and controlled. 

Her walk also led her into paths that produced 
reflections of a different character. Here the form 
of Chester Bellmore would appear to her and 
bring with it some recollection to which her 
memory would cling with fondness. She was 
surprised to find that this branch of her subject 
excluded the other entirely from her mind. 

But not for long. She would not allow herself 
to be bribed by selfish thoughts and ends. She 
would give Grammell and his claims a fair con- 
sideration, and again she thought about him, 
and their situation in all its aspects. 

But at length the fact occurred to her that 
there was nothing further for her to decide. Her 
love was not subject to her will and could not be 
bestowed at the dictation of her reason. It 
already had an owner, whose claims could never 
be forgotten.. The problem appeared to have 
been solved by a kind destiny. Her resolution 
was formed. And yet — her heart bled for the 
friend whose hope was blighted. 


112 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Chester Bellmore had gone to the city, to 
transact some business. The time for this had 
seemed opportune; for whatever Grammell’s 
intentions might be, the whole matter was one to 
be arranged between him and Gertrude, and his 
own presence could only become embarrassing, 
while in no way, as far as he could perceive, 
could it inure to her advantage. 

In the city, he learned from various sources, 
including the hotel register, that Grammell had 
been there and had left. No one was able to 
state his destination, but Bellmore required no 
information on that point. 

By him, Grammell’s visit was not regarded in 
the light in which it had been viewed by Ger- 
trude. It was possible, of course, that it was 
Grammell’s desire to return merely for the pur- 
pose to see again the home of his boyhood, and 
this object would have furnished a sufficient 
motive for his visit in the absence of Gertrude. 
But her presence there, in view of the past rela- 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


113 


tions and agreement between her and Gramniell, 
would be sufficient to prevent his coming, unless 
he intended to proceed in the execution of that 
compact. Certainly, if that was not his intent, 
his presence could not be otherwise than embar- 
rassing to her and to himself, and this fact 
opposed her theory as to his purpose. 

The most reasonable explanation of his 
coming appeared to be that he contemplated 
a fulfillment of the troublesome plan that had 
been conceived five years ago and to which one of 
the two interested was now an unwilling party. 
From Bellmore, this course elicited no adverse 
criticism. To his mind, it conveyed a profound 
impression of Grammell’s constancy and strength 
of character. He believed that the presence of 
this element in Grammell’s nature would ensure 
a speedy solution of the engrossing problem; for 
to such a man , the mere knowledge that he was 
not loved would furnish a conclusive reason for 
the relinquishment of whatever claims he might 
otherwise be inclined to assert. 

No doubt as to the outcome, therefore, dis- 
turbed the thoughts of Chester. It was certain 
that Gertrude did not love Gramniell, and it was 
s 


114 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


probable that he did not love her, however great 
might be his friendship or admiration for her. 
If, though, he did, that would afford the strongest 
reason for releasing her from any tie by which he 
might still deem her bound to him, should such 
a step be necessary in order to secure her happi- 
ness. At this point he began to reflect as to his 
probable action were such a sacrifice required of 
him. 

What would he do under similar circumstances? 
There would appear to be but one course open to 
him. Could he throw across the sunny path of 
her life the shadow of unhappiness, and urge his 
love as an excuse ? Could the armor that ought 
to be her shield be converted to a weapon for her 
destruction? No, no; he hoped the test would 
never be presented; that, if he were destined to be 
sorely tried, he might be allowed to yield all 
other hopes and possessions; nor would their loss, 
if accepted as an alternative, be deemed a mourn- 
ful deprivation. But, if the supreme test should 
be imposed upon him — he would proceed no 
further, idle boasts were useless. 

He had now, in the progress of his reflections; 
reached an inexhaustible subject — his love. Sel- 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


115 


dom was its object absent from his thoughts. 
Countless incidents and occasionswere remindful of 
her claims in various ways. Some word, to which 
her use had imparted euphony, would herald her 
presence. A subject, on which she had expressed 
an opinion, would, whenever mentioned, recall 
her views — and her. At times, his attention 
w^ould be devoted to some other subject; but, 
whatever its nature or origin, it led to the same 
ultimate object. lyove is a term so generally 
employed and frequently misused, that it seems 
inadequate for the expression of the highest feel- 
ing, and so it was in his case. 

All other subjects which claimed his attention 
seemed important now only in their relation to 
her. If he thonght of the good, her acts fur- 
nished the standard by which it was judged. In 
his study of the beautiful, she constituted the 
basis for his comparisons. When his thoughts 
reverted to aught that was connected with grace 
or modesty, she was his ideal. If music was his 
theme, her words to him were sweeter than a 
symphony. If art, he thought its greatest efforts 
could scarcely be rewarded iu a reproduction of 
her features. And, when he turned to poetry, he 


116 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


found in its choicest lines some reference to her or 
her surroundings. 

What word could then give expression to his 
feelings ? If there was one that could depict the 
consecration of his mind and soul to that one 
object, the human tongue had never been its 
exponent. 

And was it indeed possible that a benignant 
fate had destined this prize for him? Yes, it was 
more than possible; he already had the assurance 
of her love, and she and happiness would certainly 
be his own. 

Now he thought of the philosophers who teach 
that happiness is but a transient visitor on earth. 
Idle now seemed all their . speculations ; their 
theory was refuted by his own experience. At 
this time, he marveled at the creation of life, to 
confer an endless felicity on its possessor. Where 
was there room for discontent ? One moment of 
liis present existence would counterpoise the trials 
of a long career. And, in an exalted frame of 
mind, he realized that it is possible to attain a 
condition that leaves nothing further to be desired. 
Had he been asked to frame a wish under an 
assurance that it would be granted, he could have 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


117 


requested nothing really requisite to his con- 
tentinent. 

Such moments occur in life. But the white 
foam of the ocean’s waves is produced by the 
same storm that paints the sea an impenetrable 
black. 

His business in the city was closed; and he set 
out on his return to the settlement, at which he 
arrived in the evening. During this time, he 
heard nothing of Grammell, and made no inquir- 
ies concerning him. His mind had long before 
been set at rest on this subject. He knew that 
Gertrude was not the girl to bestow her hand 
without the sanction of her heart, and from her 
own lips he had learned that which rendered 
Grammell’s prospects hopeless. 

After all, he reflected, the course of his love 
had progressed without a serious hindrance. 
None of the obstacles that seem to lie in wait for 
lovers had been interposed in his path. The only 
delays encountered had proceeded upon grounds 
unusual in their character and therefore not 
liable to reappear. This being true, it seemed 
safe to assume that the morrow would witness 
the gratification of his highest hope. 


118 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

After the conversation last detailed, Gertrude 
had received no more visits from Grammell; and, 
as further speech between them could be only of 
a painful character and lead to no beneficial 
result, his absence afforded her a decided relief. 
For a time, her doubts tended to increase her 
anxiety; and her father, observing this, spoke to 
her about it. 

‘ ‘ There is no occasion for all the trouble and 
perplexity that you are borrowing,” said he. 
” Let me assure you that this will end, as far as 
Grammell is concerned, like a thousand similar 
affairs. Falling in love is no exceptional ex- 
perience, and love more frequently ends in dis- 
appointment than in marriage — cases are known 
where it has ended in both. But in all instances 
that ever came to my knowledge, men, contrary 
to their expectations, survived their love, and did 
not have to live very long to do it. Rely upon 
it, before the close of this year, Grammell will 
be in love with some one else, perhaps married. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


119 


“But, papa, he is not so changeable as that. 
Has he not proven his constancy ?’’ 

“No. If he is in fact in love with you, it dates 
back only to his return. He did not come back 
with the intention to marry you in any event, as 
he would have done had he really loved you; he 
returned to put you on probation. His inability 
to secure you was of itself sufficient to inspire- a 
desire to do so, and certainly most potent to 
strengthen it, for vanity finds its highest delight 
in this field of conquest. You, who do not love 
him, will remember this episode long after he, 
who does love you, will have forgotten it. If 3^ou 
have any confidence in the lessons taught by my 
experience, believe me, that you treat the matter 
too seriously. Do you fear that it is my purpose 
to misguide you ? If not, — and I know you do 
not — heed my counsel, and dismiss GrammeH’s 
love, and Grammell himself, as soon as 3^ou can, 
entirely from your thoughts.” 

Gertrude had been accustomed to rely upon the 
guidance of her father^ and her confidence in his 
judgment relieved her in great part of her appre- 
hensions. As Grammell did not come in the 
next two days, Mr. Trevlyn’s theory gained 


120 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


strength. In consequence, her spirits, never 
before depressed, soon began to resume a partial, 
even if they could not assert a complete control. 
Now in the absence of both Bellmore and Grani- 
niell, she was led to draw a comparison between 
them. But she soon abandoned this attempt to 
avoid the effect to lower Grammell in her estima- 
tion. She was one of the class of women who 
are unable to perceive faults w^here there is any 
room for doubt as to their existence, and whose 
vision, though clear at other times, is utterly 
blind to the shortcomings of one they love. And 
she was thus restricted in judging Bellmore. 
Given then an equality between these two gentle- 
men, Grammell would labor under an insuperable 
disadvantage in a comparison with his rival; and, 
in a partial recognition of this fact, she was 
constrained by a sense of justice, to judge him 
without reference to the other. But, as Bellmore 
had some claims to her attention, it was natural 
that, as she began to think more of him, she had 
to give less thought to Grammell. She tried to 
ignore all thoughts relating to Grammell’s love 
for her. Not from any desire to relieve herself of 
her trouble, but because she believed it to be her 



c 




♦ 


As he clasped her graceful form 


page 122. 




SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


121 


duty to conceal from Bellmore all suspicion of 
hesitation or constraint and to give him, in return 
for his whole-souled love, a willing, generous and 
unhampered affection. 

When, therefore, Bellmore called at the cottage 
the day after his return, he could perceive no 
trace of the trouble that had visited her during 
his absence. In fact, her show of happiness was 
based on no unwarranted pretense. The influ- 
ence exerted by his presence restored whatever 
confidence she might still have lacked in the ulti- 
mate outcome. 

“Gertrude,” said he, retaining for a few mo- 
ments the hand which he had taken and seating 
himself beside her, “ before my return, I heard 
of Frank Grammell’s visit. He has been here ?” 

Gertrude replied in the affirmative. 

“ And am I right in assuming that your theory 
as to the object was correct, and that matter has 
now been definitely determined?” 

“ It has been definitely determined,” was the 
evasive reply; and Bellmore, if he observed her 
ignorement of the subject suggested by his first 
query, did not deem himself at liberty to question 
further. 


122 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


“ Your compact then with him is at an end ?” 

Gertrude assented. Bellmore took her hand 
and held it while he spoke. 

‘ ‘ Then I shall avsk you to make another com- 
pact, to endure not five years but forever. If, to 
receive all that the world contains for me, I offer 
but a poor return, it is because I have no more to 
give. Gertrude, may I claim you as my own 
sweet wife ?” 

Gertrude, though trembling under the excite- 
ment caused by her unusual experience, replied 
in words that might not have been audible had 
he maintained his usual distance when engaged 
in conversation with others. Yet he experienced 
no difficulty in hearing her words: 

“ Your wife?” she said. “The happiest wife 
that ever lived.” 

And this was the time, as he clasped her grace- 
ful form and kissed her lips, that he recalled in 
after years as the supreme moment of his life, the 
nucleus of his earthly happiness. 

No vows were ever made with a better intent 
or a stronger purpose than those which he then 
uttered. No words were ever listened to with 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


123 


more attention or implicity. Each gave a world 
of love and was the gainer by the gift. 

To detail the conversation that ensued between 
them during the next two hours would involve a 
great amount of repetition, although neither was 
conscious of hearing or uttering a superfluous 
syllable. Certain it is that to them their talk 
was of a decidedly interesting character; in fact, 
to .such an extent as to render them, for the time 
being, oblivious of all else. Love was their topic, 
and this is universally known to be a fruitful 
subject for discussion. If it is at all exhaustible, 
no one has as yet directed attention to an experi- 
ence establishing that result. 

Suddenly, however, Gertrude started up as if 
moved by a guilty conscience. 

'‘lam forgetting,” she said, “ that it is after 
time for the men to have their luncheon, Are we 
always so selfish when we are happy ?” 

“ Never so unselfish,” replied Bellmore. ” At 
such a time, a man, blessed with the choicest 
gift on earth, looks with kindness and gratitude 
upon the world to which he owes his happiness, 
and every part and particle of the world seems to 


124 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


share his feeling. At such a time his views are 
broad enough to include all. ” 

As they continued to converse, Gertrude busied 
herself in preparing the luncheon for the men, 
and Chester observed her work with a new inter- 
est. Soon her preparations were complete, and 
she picked up the little basket in which she had 
deposited the victuals. She begged him to excuse 
her for a time and promised to make haste. But 
Chester took the parcel from her. 

“You need not be in any hurry on my 
account,” he said, “ because I intend to go with 
you and return with you.” 

“That is much better,” she said, “but you 
must let me carry the basket. ’ ’ 

With this condition Chester did not compl3\ 
But her hand was not entirely unemployed, for, 
while he carried the basket in one hand, he held 
her own in the other, as an assurance that he con- 
templated no flight with the basket. 

Rain had fallen within the week, and it was 
perhaps the viscidity of the ground that retarded 
their progress. To whatever cause it was ascrib- 
able, the fact remained that while the distance 
had not increased since they had last traversed 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


125 


it, their present journey required considerably 
more time than on any former occasion. But the 
passage of time was not a factor in their thoughts. 
They had a sufficient number of subjects for dis- 
cussion to claim their attention. The wood- 
cutters, however, were surprised at a delay 
unprecedented in their past experience with Ger- 
trude. The parcel having been delivered, they 
started on their return journey, which required 
much more time, as the same and other subjects 
had to be considered. 

Mr. Trevlyn, who had slept all afternoon, was 
awake when they returned. He seemed in no 
way surprised, and his manner evinced anything 
but displeasure when he was informed of the con- 
dition of affairs. His distrust of others, so far 
from causing him to extend it to Chester, had led 
him to regard the latter as an exceptional person, 
who deserved his full confidence, and he had 
eagerly awaited the consummation of this ar- 
rangement. He did not know to what extent it 
would affect his owm condition, but her future 
was his chief concern, and with her happinCvSS 
secured, his life’s most earnest work would be 
satisfactorily ended. 


126 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


Chester returned home that evening by the 
path that led along the brook and through the 
forest. It was a dark night; neither moon nor 
star was visible, and the surrounding mounts 
were draped in black. But, in the aspect of 
nature now presented,, there was nothing threat- 
ening. It was an impressive picture. Along 
the path that intersected two ridges, rows of 
gigantic trees stood, like sentinels, guarding a 
sacred realm. Low murmurs could be heard 
from the waters, whose inky surface could not be 
discerned. Great boulders lay strewn upon the 
earth, like petrified monsters. The mountains, 
huge and somber, bore an indescribable majesty. 

But, in this murky scene, there was no oppres- 
sive feature. All was quiet and serene, and was 
in accord with the peace that had taken posses- 
sion of his soul. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


127 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The next few days were devoted by Chester to 
that most agreeable of occupations, love-making. 
Now it became time, however, to make plans re- 
garding their future home, a subject not entirely 
free from difficulty, Mr. Trevlyn’s propensities 
being taken into consideration ; and his wishes 
and preferences neither Gertrude nor her lover 
was liable to disregard. Before speaking to him 
upon the subject, Chester mentioned it to Ger- 
trude, who evinced some surprise as she made a 
reply. 

“I thought we were all going to live here, 
just as before,” she said, with some apprehension 
lest he be displeased. 

“Anyplace with you, my darling, is better 
far than all other places without you. But I do 
not think that it is best for us to lead this reclu- 
sive life, nor will we, if I can get you to agree 
with me.” 

Gertrude laid her hand upon his arm to inter- 
rupt him. 


128 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


“Do not misunderstand me,” she said. “I 
have promised to go wherever you may lead, not 
regretfully nor as a matter of duty, but gladly 
and willingly. If you prefer another place, then 
let us go there, and papa will, I know, do any- 
thing that you want him to do, because he trusts 
you fully.” 

‘ ‘ But I would not think of any change did I 
not believe that it would be much better for you 
in the great world, and that is a question which, 
if open to debate, we must now consider. This 
place, in which you have lived nearly all your 
life, is a delightful spot, and I would be the last 
to disparage its claims, for in it I have passed the 
brightest days of my existence and gained an 
assurance of a future that I would wish pro- 
longed for all time to come. We never will 
abandon it. We will return to it as frequently 
as you may desire. But earth has other pleasures, 
as well as other duties, in keeping for us. The 
beauties of nature are in this place surpassing. 
It gives us much, but not everything. It is 
powerless to contribute in any degree to many of 
the elements that make up a knowledge of the 
world in general — a knowledge altogether indis- 



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page 130 


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SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 129 

peiisable to the life which we have before us. 
You conceived it to be your duty here to do all 
in your power towards the comfort of the wood- 
cutters. There you will find a broader field of 
duty among the thousands who stand in greater 
need of aid, which you will be able to render.” 

“Yes, yes, J understand. Go on; tell me 
more about our future life.” 

‘ ‘ Here, our lives, though happy, must be in- 
dolent ; there, zealous and productive, and happy 
none the less. For, wherever we go, and what- 
ever we may do, will we not be all in all to each 
other ? No other tie or duty will ever weaken 
the bond established by our love. Let me out- 
line my plan, and we can then adopt whatever 
alterations you may suggest. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Am I really to have anything to say about 
our arrangements ? ” inquired Gertrude, who 
could not realize the full measure of the respon- 
sibility and dignity attaching to her new position. 

“Most assuredly, my darling. It all rests 
with you. All that I possess and that I shall 
ever possess or attain are at your di.sposal, — by 
right and not by gift. With this knowledge, let 
us now discuss our plans. After our marriage, 


9 


130 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


for which I hope you will name a day in the very 
near future, we will go abroad. You will see the 
lands to which we now look back, through ages 
of development, for the earliest landmarks of our 
race. Classic fields, with soils indigenous to 
beauty and to thought — the richest seeds, ma- 
tured, that nature can implant. Sites of battles 
that sealed the closing chapters of a nation’s life 
and gave a preface to another’s history. The 
homes of heroes and of giants, whose noble deeds 
marked the epochs unfolded in our annals. And, 
if your soul does not respond with thrills of 
blissful emotion, I do not know my Gertrude.” 

“Will we really see all this, or am I only 
dreaming ?” 

‘ ‘ I cannot tell you all that we will see, because 
I have seen and know but a small part, and that 
imperfectly. An endless variety of wondrous 
works is spread before our gaze, if we will but 
see them. From the recollections of a cherished 
l>ast, we will turn to the modern world and seek 
the home of music, art and literature, in the van 
of the forces that lead to our enlightenment. But, 
whether we view the present or the past, we will 
behold, surrounding us, the same marvels of 


vSUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 131 

nature; rivers of peerless beauty, that furnished 
Lhemes for the legend of the past and give life to 
the story of the day. Mountains of surpassing 
grandeur, the same which met the sight of eyes 
now closed for many thousand years, and form 
an indissoluble connection between the time that 
was and that which is. If we devote a lifetime 
to our journey, we will see but little of the whole. 
Then, having remained abroad until it is your 
wish to return, we will come back, prepared to 
enter upon a life of combined usefulness and 
pleasure. ’ ’ 

It is unnecessary to state that this programme 
was entirely satisfactory to Gertrude. Such a 
statement would furnish scarcely an indication of 
the truth; for she manifested, with the frankness 
and unrestraint of a child, the delight and en- 
thusiasm with which this plan was received by 
her. To visit all these places was a longing 
which she, like most intelligent girls, had fre- 
quently conceived, but a fulfillment of her wish 
had never presented itself in the form of a possi- 
bility to her. An actual opportunity presented, 
therefore, a promise to gratify a high ambition 
and fond desire; and to go under the care and 


132 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


protection of the man who possessed her love and 
trust was the acme of bliss. 

The practical features of this subject were sub- 
sequently discussed at greater length in the 
presence of Mr. Trevlyn. Chester invited him, 
with a cordiality which could not be doubted, to 
accompany them on their journey abroad, but he 
entertained no expectation that the invitation 
would be accepted. Mr. Trevlyn ’s aversion to 
the world had been by no means overcome. His 
feeling was not an antipathy, based upon a 
natural inclination or the influence of an isolated 
circumstance. It was the result of an experience 
general in its character, in so far as he was per- 
sonally concerned. But, while his views were 
thus firmly established, he was not obdurate nor 
unreasonable in a matter that concerned the only 
two persons whose claims to his regard he recog- 
nized. As to the voyage, however, that was 
clearly out of the question. 

Having anticipated this refusal, Chester pro- 
posed, as an alternative that the old man employ 
his time, during their stay abroad, in superintend- 
ing the construction of a suitable home for them, 
and such other labor as his taste might suggest. 


SUNBEAMS and SHADOWS. 


133 


But this plan likewise failed to meet the approval 
of Mr. Trevlyn. After a lenghty discussion of 
the entire question, he announced his conclusion 
in a decided manner. 

“My opinion of the world in general,” he 
said, ‘ ‘ can undergo no further change. If I am 
mistaken, I am also incorrigible. I have never 
sought to impress my views in this regard upon 
Gertrude. You observe, she is no pessimist. 
But one change has taken place in my belief on 
this subject. Formerly, I believed that people 
exist only for trouble and suffering, and the mis- 
sion of each appeared to be to contribute as much 
as possible to the misfortune of his neighbors. I 
am convinced that I was mistaken. I think that 
this is only the fate of some, perhaps but a few, 
in which number I was included. But I am 
grateful to the world for the life it offers to my 
children, and I am more than repaid. When 
you return, I shall visit you, and come again 
from time to time. Therefore, give yourselves 
no further concern about me. Do you, Chester, 
fear that in taking her from me, you wrong me ? 
Not so. Let me explain.” 

As he spoke, a thought that had frequently 


134 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


come to the mind of Chester recurred to him, a 
striking contrast was presented by the old man’s 
kind expression and his words. With close at- 
tention he listened to the words of Mr. Trevlyn. 

“When we first came here, Gertrude was a 
little girl, who required my constant care. She- 
was the tie which bound me to the world. My 
life was embittered by a constant fear that she 
would, in some way, be taken from me, by the 
inexorable fate to which I owed my past misfor- 
tunes. But it had relented. I was allowed to 
retain my prize. As she grew older, my appre- 
hensions assumed another form. I began to 
realize that I would soon lose her, but to this 
thought I had to become resigned. It was my 
intention to fit her, as well as I could, for the 
world which I had left. ' This would be no life 
for her here, and even if it were, what would she 
do after my death ? I feared that it might even 
become necessary for me to go back to the world 
with her. ^ But we were so contented here 
together, my little girl was so cheerful and so 
happy, that I was led to defer that step, to its 
practical abandonment. You will take her from 
me, but my fears have vanished, for I thought 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


135 


that I would lose her. But, in giving her to you, 
I feel that she is still, and always will be 
mine. ’ ’ 

In accordance with the old man’s wishes, thus 
expressed, they made their plans. The wedding 
day was set, and but little time allowed for the 
bride’s preparations. After more conversation, 
Gertrude and Chester left Mr. Trevlyn and went 
out for a walk in one of the attractive lanes 
through which they rambled daily now. Of the 
old man’s future, they took a cheerful view. 
Chester was certain that a visit to them in the 
city would lead to his ultimate restoration to an 
active life as far as his health would permit. 
They would render their home so attractive to him 
that he would not think of leaving them, and 
Gertrude agreed with him. 

Meanwhile, the old man sat where they had 
left him. He looked through the window, after 
them, and to his mind the sight presented was not 
a representation of a momentary condition, but 
revealed a permanent state. He saw Chester 
take the hand of Gertrude and lead her from the 
cottage, leaving him there alone. Kach moment 


136 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


increased the distance between them; he realized 
that she would soon be beyond his sight. And, 
as he looked, his vision became obscured, and he 
could no longer see them. 



■* . 


The old man sat where they had left him 


pa?e 1.^5 



























SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


137 


CHAPTER XV. 

The career of Frank Grammell had not been 
of a character to inure him to disappointment. 
Up to his early manhood he had lived in this 
lonely place, with but a very vague conception of 
the world. Without any high ambition, or 
definite aim or purpose leading to a worthy 
achievement, he had been content to care only 
for the day and allow the morrow to care for him. 
Incapable of any depth of feeling, he had never 
been controlled by any emotion of unusual fervor, 
and had developed a phlegmatic temperament. 

His experience in the world had changed him 
but little in these respects. His efforts, always 
limited to a purpose which could not at all times 
prove an incentive to minds of a higher order, 
had been successful. Having gained a moderate 
fortune, his ambition had been monopolized by a 
desire to increase it. He had come to look upon 
himself as a successful man, and no suspicion of 
serious trouble, to be visited upon him, had ob- 


138 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


traded itself upon his mind. Thus, neither by 
natural attributes nor the discipline of events had 
he been equipped to endure, and any keen dis- 
appointment would now find him vulnerable to 
its assaults. 

His love for Gertrude was the first powerful 
emotion that had ever manifested an existence 
within his bosom. That he really loved her he 
did not doubt, and that the extent of his love 
was exaggerated in his mind by his inability 
to secure her is indisputable. Worse still, he had 
a successful rival. He had believed that, as the 
result of her acceptance, he would confer upon 
her a position which she would prize, and that 
his offer was one which would be reasonably cer- 
tain of acceptance. His finst feelings, therefore, 
after he had given the matter some consideration, 
were rather the products of anger and vanity 
than the emanations of a disappointed love. But 
to give vent to these feelings afforded little satis- 
faction. When he recalled her to his sight and 
remembered the considerateness and reluctance 
with which her refusal had been accompanied, he 
could not be angry with her. It became clear 
that he truly loved her, and had met with a dis- 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


139 


appointment such as he had never believed could 
arise in life. 

While he had never discovered his weakness, 
he realized that he was utterly helpless in this 
emergency. He did not know what to do. No 
plan or expedient, presenting any possibility of 
success in its design or alleviation of his trouble, 
occurred to him. The first day he was as utterly 
destitute of any project or purpose as if he had 
been a child. All night he lay awake and 
thought of his misfortune, without attempting to 
devise a plan for his relief. 

Next day, he arose and went forth where he 
he could be alone and think about the matter, 
The first thought that suggested itself to his mind 
was to renew his appeal to her, but there were no 
new arguments that he could employ, no stronger 
inducements that he could offer. His next inten- 
tion was to invoke the aid of her father. But the 
character of his reception by the latter afforded 
no flattering indications of success. There was 
no other resource at his command. There was 
but one thing which he could do, and that was 
to give her up. 

Yes, he would give her up. But a few days 


140 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


before, had he been informed that she was for any 
reason beyond his reach, he would have dis- 
missed the matter from his mind without a single 
pang or regret. Could the few days that had 
intervened have created such a difference ? He 
would try to forget those days. He would give 
her up. 

It was but a resolution. The stronger the 
column resting on an unsubstantial pedestal, the 
heavier is its fall. He did not know what step 
to take to carry his resolve into effect. He rea- 
lized that he had encountered the first check in 
his career, and that he had sustained a loss be- 
yond replacement or computation. He bewailed 
his fate, but had no power to affect its workings. 
He could think no further; thought was of no 
avail. 

Again he became more reasonable, and could 
think rationally upon his situation, but not for 
long. His thoughts, guided by his emotions, 
underwent a continuous series of changes. At 
times, he would be imbued with a sense of deep 
humiliation. Again, he would recall her wo- 
manly feelings, and experience nothing but sor- 
row and regret. None of these impressions. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


141 


hastily conceived, was long abiding. As the 
result of all his mental labors, he evolved the 
conclusion that it would be best to forget her, 
and, toward that end, he resolved to leave the 
neighborhood so as to see her no more. 

Accordingly, without apprising any one of his 
intentions, he left and went to the neighboring 
city, whence it was his purpose to leave for his 
distant home. But here again he was the victim 
of his vacillation. He learned that to move was 
not to forget. It seemed to him that his regard 
for her increased with the distance between them, 
and that his suffering became more poignant in 
consequence. By a stay of two days he tested the 
efficacy of removal, and found it valueless. Now 
he concluded to return to the mountains to her 
home. He would see her, and note what effect 
her presence would produce upon him. If he 
could meet her with even a show of indifference, 
he would feel that his honor was vindicated, 
and that would afford him great relief. And, if 
he could endure the ordeal of a meeting with her, 
thereafter it would be an easy matter to reconcile 
himself to his loss. He did not consider the 
details of his plans very carefully, nor analyze 


142 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


his motives and the results with excessive care. 
His inclinations impelled him to go, and, under 
these influences, reasons are never lacking. 

When he returned to the mountains, he learned 
of the engagement, and heard that a day had 
been set for the marriage. His position was now 
unendurable. A jealous nature added its contri- 
bution to his torments. He was assailed by a 
variety of emotions. It is difficult to say whether 
love for the girl or hatred for his successful rival 
predominated. The latter feeling, he’ believed, 
was justified, for to his mind his course did not 
appear to be at all honorable. But for this inter- 
loper, all might and probably would have been 
well. What right had he to come between them, 
as if his presence had been solicited ? He was 
surprised that Gertrude did not see it in the same 
light. Perhaps, though, he was doing his rival 
injustice; he might be a noble fellow, after all, 
with an understanding of the claims of right, 
and, if the facts would be properly presented to 
him, he might of his own accord withdraw. By 
some strange perversion of reason, this thought 
grew upon him until, having emerged but as a 
mere possibility in the first place, it assumed the 


sunbeams and shadows. 


143 


form of a settled conviction; and he resolved to 
see Bellmore and submit the matter to him. 

Towards the accomplishment of this purpose, 
he went forth to the woods, and concealed him- 
self behind some trees that lined one of the paths 
to the coltage. He was not long alone. He 
heard the sound of footsteps, and he beheld Ger- 
trude and an unknown gentleman, whose arm 
was about her waist. They were evidently 
returning to the cottage. Grammell’s first im- 
pulse was to leap from his place of concealment 
and charge them with the wrong that he believed 
they had done him; but again he succumbed to 
his indecision. For the first time it now occurred 
to him. that Gertrude was a participant in the 
wrong that had been perpetrated upon him. Her 
look of happiness as she passed instilled this 
belief. How could she be so happy when he was 
so miserable ? He had been mistaken in her, she 
was a heartless girl and undeserving of his 
thoughts. And yet he loved her; he had lost 
her; another had won her and these thoughts 
maddened him. In a state of great excitement 
he walked back and forth, looked after them, then 
turned away again with a cry of despair. After 


144 SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 

some time he became more calm. Several times 
he started to leave but changed his intention, 
and resolved to await the return of Bellmore. 
Ordinarily this would have required great 
patience, for several hours elapsed before he reap- 
peared; but Grammell was regardless of the 
flight of time, and when the time for action 
arrived, was still in doubt as to his course. 
What he would have done might have remained a 
mystery but for a movement on his part, by which 
Chester learned of the presence of another. 
Thereupon Grammell came forward and con- 
fronted him. 

Bellmore started back in surprise to find a 
stranger in this place, where none could at any 
time be expected. Without a suspicion of the 
man’s identity, he waited for him to speak 

“You are Mr. Bellmore?” inquired Grammell. 

Chester replied in the affirmative. 

‘ ‘ I suppose you know who I am ?’ ’ was the 
next query. 

And this he answered in the negative. 

“My name is Frank Grammell. I see you 
know me now.” 


“ Yes, I have heard of you.” 



I suppose you know who I am? 


page 144, 



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SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


145 


“ In what connection ?” 

“ As a former resident of this place. ’ ’ 

“Is that all?” 

‘ ‘ Before I answer any more questions let me 
learn their purport. It will be necessary for me 
to possess this knowledge, if for no other purpose 
than to give you correct information.” 

“ Very well, I have no objection to tell you, 
although it is very probable that you know just a 
little about it. I was engaged to Gertrude 
Trevlyn before you came. I had Gertrude Trev- 
lyii’s love before you got it from me.“ 

“ I do not agree with you. You had, and prob- 
ably still retain her friendship, but it could not 
have been love, because a girl of Miss Trevlyn ’s 
nature cannot love twice. If, therefore, you pos- 
sessed her love before, you have it to-day; and, 
conversely stated, if you haven’t it to-day, you 
never had it.” 

‘ ‘ I know that I would never have lost her but 
for your interference. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Allow me to interrupt you. I have no desire 
to have a quarrel with you, and shall avoid it by 
all means in my power. I hope, however, that 


10 


146 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


}'ou yourself will make some effort in that direc- 
tion, or at least none to the contrary.” 

“ I am not picking any quarrel with you,” 
said Grammell, “ but I propose to have a clear 
understanding of this matter, no difference what 
the result will be. ’ ’ 

” Of what matter? ” 

“You know very well what I am talking 
about.” 

“ Perhaps I do; and you understand it just as 
well. It is unnecessary for us to discuss this or 
any other subject in any acrimonious vSpirit. 
There is no occasion for the existence of any hos- 
tile feeling between us, and, -whatever we may 
have to say can be said in the manner which 
commends itself to gentlemen under all circum- 
stances. Now, bearing this in mind, let us 
proceed.” 

But Grammell did not find it very easy to do 
so. He did not know j ust exactl}^ what he desired 
to accomplish by this interview. Bellmore, 
observing his embarrassment, resumed : 

‘ ‘ There is no difiiculty in the way of a per- 
fectly clear and friendly understanding between 
us. Both love the same girl, and it was my good 


SUN3EA:\rS AND SHADOWS. 


147 


fortune which gave me an advantage through 
your absence, to secure her love in return. Had 
the result been different, I would have been con- 
strained to submit to a fate whose decrees we 
cannot always understand and which we cannot 
hope to alter. Let me assure you that my only 
regret in this entire connection is that it involves 
any disappointment for you.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose I ought to thank you, but I can do 
that later. I believe that, if our positions were 
reversed, I could be just as generous. ” 

“ And I hope quite as sincere,’’ said Bellmorc, 
who determined to avoid if possible, a dispute, in 
which the name of Gertrude might be concerned. 
‘ ‘ I know that, in our present positions, it is more 
difficult for you to be just than it would be under 
the circumstances assumed by you. But surely 
your sense of justice will enable you to meet the 
exigencies of the present situation. You have no 
cause of complaint.” 

“ Now let me see if there is anything to what 
you say, whether you mean it. If you do, you 
have a chance to prove it. You are talking about 
generosity, now" let us see what you can do in 
that line. I had the earlier claim, and if you 


148 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


hadn’t come, she would be mine to-day; and, if 
you will go, without doubt, she will be mine 
again. ” 

Bellmore started back in amazement at the 
novel proposal conveyed by the last statement. 

“You certainly are not serious in making this 
suggestion?” 

‘ ‘ I certainly am. You talk about sacrifice, and 
giving up the object of a man’s lifetime just as if 
it didn’t amount to anything. Then let us see 
what sacrifice you are willing to make for her 
sake.” 

‘ ‘ What I would do for her sake ?’ ’ repeated 
Chester. ‘ ‘ That question cannot arrise at this 
time. To what extent I would go, for her, it is 
not necessary for me to tell you. But let me assure 
you that if for her sake it were necessary for me to 
relinquish all my hopes and I would fail to do so, 
it would demonstrate the weakness if not the 
falsity, of my claim to love.” 

His earnest manner produced an impression 
upon Grammell, who remained silent for a time. 

‘ ‘ If your love for her is as deep as you pro- 
fess,” continued Chester, “ 3’ou must have the 
same thoughts and feelings. The same prin- 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


140 


ciples apply to both of us — the same motives 
must control our actions. Now let us apply 
them to the facts as they actually exist. You 
will perceive that the occasion calls for i:o such 
action on my part. For me to leave her at this 
time would be both foolish and dishonorable. 
Excuse me, I am not attempting to indicate your 
duty nor to outline your course. I have aimed 
to limit my remarks to a reply to your own 
suggestions.” 

“ No, I don’t suppose you want to make any 
suggestions to me, because I don’t care for them, 
and haven’t asked for any.” 

“Yet they are frequently advanced, even when 
unsolicited, as you can see in the present instance. 
I am indebted to you for your counsel, without 
having made any request for it.” 

“You will be indebted to me for more before 
you get through with me,” said Grammell, in a 
threatening voice. 

Up to this time, Bellmore, having constantly 
in mind the unfortunate position of his com- 
panion, had refrained from the slightest manifes- 
tation of impatience or resentment. But Cram- 
mell had almost exhausted his patience, and was 


150 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


Still persistent. A sudden change came over 
Bellmore’s manner. 

“ See here, sir,” he said, in a very determined 
tone, ” I call a halt. You have gone far enough. 
Your impertinent interference in my affairs will 
not be tolerated any longer. And, as to your 
threats, keep them. They are evidently of some 
importance to you and are of none to me.” 

But Grammell was now thoroughly aroused, 
and could not be deterred. Although he had had 
no special purpose in view in approaching Bell- 
more, he was disappointed and aggrieved at his 
failure to accomplish anything. 

‘ ‘ I don’t know that I have made any threats, ’ ’ 
he said, ” but if I have, I have made none that I 
daren’t carry out.” 

‘ ‘ Then prove it by your acts, and not your 
words.” 

As he spoke, Bellmore took a step towards 
Grammell, who realized that his companion was 
now thoroughly in earnest. 

“Bellmore,” he said, “you see in me a desper- 
ate man, who don’t care for consequences. If you 
drive me too far, I won’t answer for the result. ’ ’ 

“ As to that, I require no assurance from you,” 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


151 


replied Bellmore. ‘ ‘ I sought no contest with 
you; but, if it must come, the sooner the better. 
There is nothing to be gained by delay.” And, 
having now regained his equanimity, he awaited 
Grammell’s decision. 

The latter hesitated; again he was undecided. 
As he said, he was in a state of mind that ren- 
dered him fearless of any consequences. At the 
same time, looking upon his athletic companion, 
it seemed probable that very little satisfaction 
could be derived from any personal encounter with 
him. He was not armed; but, had he had a 
weapon, he would not have made use of it against 
an unarmed antagonist, as he was not an assassin. 
While he was still hesitating in a choice between 
the suggestions of his wrath and the demands of 
his discretion, Bellmore resumed speech; but his 
manner had changed again. 

‘‘All this is idle talk,” he said, “nonsense. 
We are neither children nor fools, yet we speak 
like both. The fight is over. Let us not again 
forget ourselves, and, when we .strike, let it be at 
our enemies. There is no cause for the existence 
of any enmity between us.” 

Grammell was silent. All belligerent thoughts 


152 


sunbe:ams and shadows. 


had left his mind, and he was more calm and 
reasonable than he had been at any previous time 
during the conversation. 

‘ ‘ There was no intent on the part of any one to 
wrong you,” said Bellmore. “ On the contrary, 
we waited until the expiration of the period desig- 
nated by yourself, for you to assert a claim. The 
fact that you came a few days late made no differ- 
ence; but remember that, when you did come, 
you did not look upon your compact as binding. 
But, had she been bound to you by a thousand 
promises and ties, you would, as an honorable 
man, have released her upon learning that such 
was her wish. Tet us be reasonable. We will 
meet again in life. There will be occasions, as 
there are in the lives of others, when we may be 
of benefit to each other.'* 

Grammell made no reply. All traces of anger 
had left his face, and he was undecided what to 
do or say, and therefore said nothing. After a 
few moments of hesitation, he turned to go. 

“Wait,’* said Chester, and Grammell turned. 
“ If our interview is at an end, it will be resumed, 
in another spirit, hereafter, and now we will part 
as friends.” 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


153 


He extended his hand. Grammell took it, 
then, silent as before, turned away and left. 

But the look of utter helplessness and despair 
that was on his face left an enduring impression 
on Bellmore’s memory. 


154 


sunbeams and shadows. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

There are many men who, after being led to 
believe, by a striking continuity of success dur- 
ing a period of j^ears, that fate has pledged itself 
to a fulfillment of their desires, meet with a sud- 
den reversal. Then follows a decline so precipi- 
tate that its stages can scarcely be marked or 
recognized; and, at a step, they reach their down- 
fall. Up hill, we must climb; down, we can roll. 

So it was with Grammell. This, the first 
serious obstacle that had presented itself in his 
career, had a far-reaching effect. He had had 
the utmost self-confidence, but now it was gone. 
As a result of this experience, he perceived not 
merely a failure to s ecure a coveted prize, but a 
general inability and helplessness, which now 
exhibited themselves whenever an occasion de- 
manded action on his part. 

He had tried all the expedients which had 
presented themselves to his mind, and his efforts 
had only enmeshed him more inextricably. His 
interview with Bellmore, the last attempt made 



He lay down beneath a great tree 


page 155 


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SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


155 


by him, had been so unfortunate in its results, 
that he now resolved to abandon all efforts and 
submit to a fate which he could neither appease 
nor control. 

But submission brought with it no comfort. It 
was not in the nature of the resignation which a 
high philosoph}^ could teach, but a complete snr 
render to chance. A powerful stroke had pene- 
trated his armor, and future thrusts would find 
him unresisting. 

He was absolutely without any plan or hope 
of change. He could resolve neither to go nor 
to remain. He arose from his seat, in the cottage 
in which a wood-cutter had given him a tempo- 
rary home, and went forth into the forest. Here 
he tried to think. His position was unendurable, 
and he did not know how to change it. He knew 
only that he was alone in the world, and intensely 
miserable. 

He lay down beneath a great tree, which spread 
its protecting branches over him, laid his face 
upon the ground, and shed the tears that anguish 
wrung from his wounded heart. 

He was not relieved by this outward manifesta- 
tion of grief. But a change had taken place. A 


156 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


purpose was now fixed in his mind, and what 
that purpose was could be read in unmistakable 
words upon his desperate countenance. 

He saw a hope of relief ; and if, to obtain that 
relief, he had to yield his life in exchange, he 
would secure all that he now sought, for that 
which had no value for him. And, with the pas- 
sage of the minutes, he became more resolute. It 
seemed as though all his strength of will had been 
reserved, to serve him in the execution of his 
present purpose. 

He returned to his cottage and wrote a letter, 
which, stained with tears, he enclosed in an 
envelope, addressed it to Gertrude, and left it 
lying on the table. In the ordinary course of 
events', it would be found the next day and deliv- 
ered to her. Then he went out for the last time. 
The sky, which had been clear, was now over- 
spread with clouds that had not yet, however, 
assumed a threatening aspect. 

He turned to take a last look at ‘ the cottage. 
He had lived in it years before, when care and 
trouble had been unknown to him. But now, in 
recalling that fact, he remembered also that that 
tranquil state had fled, never to return. The 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


157 


vision of his past content only enhanced his pres- 
ent sufferings. He thought of his parents; but 
their forms seemed to beckon him to their last 
home, in which he would again find rest. He 
walked along beside the stream ; its pensive 
sounds could not lull his troubled mind. Onward 
he walked, to the base of a towering peak. 

He now began the ascent of the mountain. 
Not for an instant during the entire time required 
for his task was he assailed by any hesitation or 
change of intent. Never had he exhibited such 
constancy to his purposes. In his condition of 
mind, it required extraordinary courage to live 
and bear the burdens that fate had imposed upon 
him, without any sign or promise of alleviation, 
while it required none to die. It did not once 
occur to him that his act was connected with any 
sacrifice. 

At other times it would have been an extremely 
difficult task to climb the height, and he would 
probably have abandoned the journey at one of 
its early stages. But now he was untiring. Up 
and still up, he worked his way. At one time, 
he slipped, and his search for death could easily 
have been rewarded with success had he not been 


358 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


impelled, by an irresistible force within him, to 
k<rasp a protruding branch. 

He arrived at his destination, and looked about 
;dm. From the base where he had started, the 
1 idge had seemed to stand in solitary grandeur. 
T'fow, looking down upon the other side, he 
lound himself at the summit of a gigantic cliff, 
confronting another of equal dimensions. It 
fieemed as if these peaks had risen, from some 
mysterious depths through illimitable space, here 
Vo oppose their threatening fronts; and they 
{ brmed a picture of tremendous power. Between 
the bases of these monsters was a gorge, but no 
part of this could he see, for everything beneath 
him was veiled in blackness. He looked down 
intently, in an effort to pierce the awful gloom. 
In vain; the sun’s bright rays were equally impo- 
tent to penetrate those depths. 

He looked up. The clouds now covered the 
!;ky with a robe of black. The storm burst forth. 
.Al mighty ocean appeared to descend upon the 
1 Qountains. He heard the bending and breaking 
of trees, as they succumbed to the turbulent 
winds. He heard the roar of waters, rushing, 
with resistless power, through the deep passes; 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


159 


while crashes of appalling thunder reverberated 
through the mountains. It seemed as if his own 
doom had been determined by an edict of fate 
which consigned the entire race to immediate 
destruction. The surging waters must soon en- 
gulf the earth. 

Again he approached the edge of the cliif ; again 
he looked down. A flash of lightning now lit up 
the scene, and revealed rugged boulders, project- 
ing from the opposite bank. The cliff on which 
he stood seemed perpendicular, and he was assured 
that there was nothing above the base of the pre- 
cipice to intercept him. 

Once more he gazed towards heaven. He 
could perceive no ray of light, no sign of hope 
or comfort. Unending was the darkness by 
which he was enshrouded. 

For the last time he approached the edge. He 
loosened the hold which he had until then re- 
tained, threw out his arms, and, with a wild, 
unearthly cry, hurled himself into the murky 
depths. 


1(30 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

ft was a beautiful summer’s morning. Ger- 
trude was returning from the place where the 
wood-cutters were at work, having carried thither 
the food which she never failed to provide at that 
hour for them, The ground was wet, as the 
effect of the deluge of the preceding da}^, and she 
wore a pair of rubbers — the first she had ever 
seen — sent her by Bellmore, who overlooked no 
article, whether important or trivial, that could 
contribute to her comfort. It had been accom- 
panied with a valuable brooch. 

Bellmore was absent. He had gone to the city 
to make his final preparations for the wedding, 
soon to take place. Gertrude too was very busy. 
The services of assistants had been secured in the 
city, and, desirous to render herself as pleasing as 
possible to her future husband, she allowed them 
full scope in all matters pertaining to her prepara- 
tions for the important event. 

It had been definitely arranged that, after the 
wedding, Mr. Trevlyii would remain at his pres- 



A flash of lightning now lit up the scene 


—page 159 



























SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 161 

ent home until notified of the return of the young 
couple from their travels abroad, in accordance 
with Bellmore’s plans. Gertrude was in a state 
of wonder and excitement, and found it very 
difficult to realize that she would in fact embark 
’ upon a voyage of such duration and extent, and 
without the companionship of her life-long guar- 
dian. But the spirits of her father had recently 
shown such a marked improvement, and the pros- 
p.cts, as a whole, offered to her such bright 
promises of unlimited joy, that even her separa- 
tion from him could not depress her. 

On the morrow Bellmore would return, and two 
days later the wedding would take place; and, 
when this thought would recur to her, her girlish, 
joyous feelings would yield to a womanly realiza- 
tion of the responsibility to be assumed by her — 
the duty to ensure the happiness of the man to 
whom she owed her own. With this end in view, 
she had devoted much time to the study of his 
thoughts and ambitions. 

To the social station which she would occupy 
as his wife, she gave no thought. The life of 
a society belle had never appealed to her 
fancy. Strange, if it had; for not only had she 


11 


162 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


lived since early childhood in this quiet retreat, 
but in it she had always been content; and would 
now but for her deference to the wish of Bellmore, 
have preferred to stay there during the remain- 
der of her life as a place of permanent residence. 
She necessarily inferred, from his plans, that he 
was a man of means, but she neither had any 
knowledge nor concern as to the extent of his 
wealth. In fact her ideas upon this subject were 
extremely vague, and facts and figures would have 
afforded her no criteria upon which to base an un- 
derstanding. She was well pleased to share his 
condition and fate, be they what they might. 

There was nothing to trouble her or limit her 
high expectations. Grammell alone had caused 
her troublous thoughts, but the reiterations of 
her father that Grammell had already forgotten 
her appeared to find confirmation in the conduct 
of the latter. She had not seen him nor heard 
of him since the time of their interview at the 
cottage. She had heard of his departure, but 
not of his return. This course, it is true, seemed 
eminently proper under the circumstances, but 
Mr. Trevlyn asserted, as an opinion founded on 
a careful estimate of Grammeirs character, that 


SUNBISAMS AND SHADOWS. 


163 


this was not the consideration that enforced a 
continued silence in his case. He opined that 
Grammell’s fancy was, like that of most other 
people, of a changeable nature; and certainly 
none of his former acts had been indicative of 
his possession of an unusual depth of feeling. 
In no other connection is a spark so frequently 
mistaken for a conflagration. In view of his 
moral and mental composition, it was certain 
that if his love had survived the strain of the 
test imposed upon it, she would have heard from 
him again on the subject. And Gertrude was 
gradually relieved of her misgivings. She rea- 
soned that either her father’s theory was correct 
or Grammell had, upon learning the facts, 
sensibly dismissed the matter from his mind. In 
either event, it were better for both to forget all 
about it. Each day, therefore, tended to lessen 
the anxiety that he had caused her. 

Thus there was nothing to worry her at this 
important period of her life, and at no time was 
a change from this state of things less expectable. 

Whenever Bellmore would go to the city, to 
be absent more than a day, he would write to 
her, and the letters would be delivered in due 


164 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


course by the slow procees prevailing in that 
region. She had received a letter the day before, 
and, at this time, when an envelope was handed 
her by her father, she seized it eagerly, certain 
that it could be only from him. But the super- 
scription was not his. It was in a hand-writing 
not so well known, and yet not entirely unfamiliar. 
Without pausing to speculate about it, she broke 
the seal. These were the contents of the letter, 
signed by Grammell: 

“ Gertrude — I thought to say my Gertrude, but 
you would not have it so — I write this for the 
purpose of saying my last words to you, because 
I will never see you again. I am about to end 
my miserable existence. I cannot bear the thought 
that you will be married to another. You, you 
have driven me to this, and in return this is the 
best wedding gift that I can give you.” 

She began to read it. She proceeded until she 
became aware of his awful intent. The letter fell 
from her trembling hand. For a moment she • 
stood gasping for breath, then her head fell for- 
ward and she dropped to the floor. 

In wild alarm, her father sprang from his seat 
and rushed up to her. He spoke to her, but 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


165 


received no answer. Raising her in his arms, he 
carried her to her bed. His efforts to revive her, 
for a time unproductive of any result, were finally 
successful. She awoke, as if from slumber; but, 
as she saw the letter, lying where it had fallen, 
she turned from it with a look of horror and cov- 
ered her eyes with her hand. He tried all means 
in his power to soothe her, said that the letter 
conveyed nothing but an idle threat, and em- 
ployed^ every argument that occurred to him in 
an endeavor to quiet her. 

But when, later in the day, it was reported that 
the body had been found in a ravine, into which 
it had been carried on the swollen bosom of a 
mountain stream, then for the first time they 
learned of the horrible mean's adopted by him for 
the execution of his plan and of its accom- 
plishment. 

To the imaginative girl, the scene upon the 
heights on that wild night was now revealed in 
its appalling aspect. She could see the figure 
of the hapless man, launched into eternity. She 
could hear his despairing cry, and, as it rang like 
a knell in her ears, she raised her hand to exclude 
its torturing echoes. Before her eyes was the 


166 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


falling body, never pausing in its descent, until it 
struck the chasm below. There lay the remains 
of him who had been her childhood’s friend. 
These were the pictures which appeared, in rapid 
transition, to her mind, and soon it receded from 
her sight, images became confused, and then she 
fell to rest until the return of her consciousness. 

Her nervous system had undergone a dreadful 
shock, which might have developed into a fatal 
illness but for the aid of excellent health, for 
which she was largely indebted to her home in 
the mountains. Her actions for a time underwent 
continuous changes. She made apparent efforts 
to regain her composure, and when the result 
appeared to indicate a slight measure of success, 
she burst into an hysterical flow of tears. Her 
father used all means to divert her attention from 
the occurrence. In vain. It was the first time 
that his efforts to control her proved utterly 
futile. He besought her to be calm, and she 
attempted to comply, but soon a recurrence of 
the horrible picture would react against her. 

All that night, the old man sat beside her, 
ministering to her comfort as best he could, and 
trying to calm her, just as he had done when she 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


167 


had been an infant. But she could find no rest. 
Filled with the greatest anxiety, he watched 
beside her, and longed for the coming of the day. 
That would bring with it relief; but it seemed as 
if the sun had forgotten its mission. 

Towards morning, overcome by exhaustion, 
she fell into a refreshing slumber, and, when she 
awoke, she appeared to be in a better condition. 

But all of her words and acts revealed the influ- 
ence of an excitement which had until then been 
a stranger to her. She insisted upon arising and 
going out, as usual, for a walk through the 
woods. She maintained that there it would be 
less difficult to think and act under the conditions 
now confronting her. 

She went out into the forest, and traversed the 
old lane, in quest of the peace of mind which 
nature alone could restore. She tried to think 
only of pleasant subjects, — of her father, Chester 
and her approaching marriage. But it was im- 
possible to screen behind these happy thoughts a 
recollection of the occurrence by which she was 
oppressed. All her surroundings, that formerly 
presented to her mind impressions but of beauty 
and delight, now served as stern reminders of the 


168 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


dread event. When she looked up at the moun- 
tain summit, she recalled the fact that from a 
similar place he had made his fatal leap. The 
stream, which had never failed to join its voice in 
accompaniment with her song, now brought to 
mind the reflection that in its waters his body 
had been found. The old paths, through which 
she had, in childhood, walked beside him, had at 
every turn some unmistakable reminder. Every- 
where and at all times, it was so. She was con- 
stantly haunted by the same apparition. 

She could not remain in the forest. She would 
return to the cottage; within its narrow walls 
there could not be so many objects to harrass her. 
There she would find rest; having returned, she 
yielded to the importunities of her restless state, 
and went , forth again, in search of some object 
that might divert her attention. All her efforts 
were vain. In despair she returned, and sought 
her father, who had been observing her with 
great solicitude and apprehension. He was 
not in. He had gone out in search of her, and 
impatiently she awaited his return. 

Now she drew the letter from her pocket, and 
for the first time read its entire contents. Her 



The letter from her trembling hand 


page 164 






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SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


169 


eyes were riveted upon his words of reproach. 
She had driven him to it! And an appalling 
fear seized her lest his accusation might be justi- 
fied. Knowing herself to be entirely guiltless of 
any such intent, it nevertheless occurred to her 
that she might have been led by her inexperience 
to the adoption of some injudicious course. Per- 
haps she had appeared to treat his claims too 
lightly; she might have been more considerate 
of his feelings; perhaps by the use of some word 
or act she had unintentionally opened the wound 
which she should have endeavored to heal. If 
he had uttered this reproach during their inter- 
view, she would have deemed it unjust. But his 
words were now fraught with the solemnity of 
the dread occasion. He had written them while 
knocking at the doors of death. He knew he 
never could retract the words, designed to be his 
last, for the home that would open its portals for 
his entrance would have no means of exit. 

And again, what was his motive in preferring 
this charge, if not justified by the facts? To 
embitter her life? Impossible; for the words 
w^re those of one who had loved her, and to 


170 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


whom she could , in consequence, impute no such 
base design. 

By these harrowing thoughts and doubts, she 
was mercilessly assailed. No counsel that she 
could obtain would ease her mind, for it seemed 
impossible that her adviser could occupy the posi- 
tion from which she must judge. Bach circum- 
stance gives language a special meaning; and, 
while words may be repeated, circumstances can- 
not all be reproduced. 

If it was the purpose of Grammell, when he 
indited these lines, to consign the happiness of 
the girl he professed to love with himself to de- 
struction, he could not have adopted a more 
effective means. For, as the result of all her 
reasoning and perplexing doubts, she evolved 
clearly one conclusion, and that was that she 
could never marry Chester Bellmore. 

To marry him now seemed like a defiance of 
the dead — a selfish disregard of the feelings of 
the man who had been driven to his death by a 
love which she could not requite. She would 
thereby derive happiness from the cause that had 
led to his destruction. Her nature shrank from 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


171 


a step that would lend an appearance of justifica- 
tion to his reproach. 

His feeling for her must have been true and 
infinite, if her denial of all hope to him had led 
him to his desperate resolve; and could she in 
return stamp upon his love, now sanctified by 
his immolation ? 

Then, too, he had had some claims to her con- 
sideration. And while she could not give him a 
tithe of the affection which Bellmore held as an 
exclusive pledge, she could not utterly ignore 
their past relations. All his faults and frailties 
were now forgotten; and she remembered hiit 
only as the true companion and friend of hei 
early days. She recalled that he had no other 
ties of friendship; that, after the death of his 
parents, she had remained his only friend; he 
had worked for her; had lived but for her, and, 
last of all, had died for her. 

She made no effort to subject her motives to a 
psychological analysis. She was guided by her 
feelings, which found birth in a sensitive organiza- 
tion and now exerted a paramount control. He 
had struck a chord that responded to the most 
delicate touch; and the trial he had imposed 


172 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


probed the depths of her soul. Grammell, liv- 
ing, had been powerless to interpose a barrier 
between Bellmore and herself; but Grammell, 
dead, was now omnipotent. His death was an 
incessant protest against her happiness — a protest 
all the more powerful because he could give it no 
voice. 

These were the thoughts and impressions that 
led her to resolve that she would never wed. 
But, having formed this resolution, what followed? 
Had she removed the heavy hand which care had 
laid upon her ? 

She realized that she had taken passage aboard 
a bark that had no certain destination; and, as 
she was borne further and further from the land 
which had held forth to her a promise of per- 
petual bliss, she gazed with infinite longing and 
sorrow upon the beautiful banks, gradually 
receding until they were forever lost to her sight. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


173 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The news of Grammell’s death had spread 
through the neighborhood, and the theory which 
obtained general credence was that he had met 
an accident while climbing the mountain. Proba- 
bly he had taken hold of some object which had 
been loosened by the storm. But Chester Bell- 
more, when he heard of the occurrence, recalled 
the expression upon Grammell’s face at their 
parting, and a thrill of horror passed through his 
frame as he divined the truth. If despair could 
be incarnated, it had at that time found life in 
Grammell; and his death, following so soon the 
revelations of his reckless mind, connected it as a 
probable sequel to preceding events. 

To say that Bellmore was inexpressibly shocked 
would fail to describe his feelings. This culmi- 
nation, its suddenness and the means employed 
would have been enough in any event to involve 
his deepest feelings. But this was not all. In 
the present case, he knew the cause which had 
led to this result; knew that it was the act of a 


174 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


desperate lover — of one who loved Gertrude; and 
to his mind this knowledge conveyed a wonderful 
impressiveness. 

He remembered, moreover, that he himself had 
produced the conditions which had led to this 
direful result, however innocent he might have 
been of any such design. His reason acquitted 
him of all complicity, but the fact remained. For 
a time all his thoughts and sympathies related 
directly to Grammell. Then, a thought of the 
effect that this occurrence might have produced 
upon Gertrude filled him with anxiety and he 
.was impatient to return to her. 

A tragedy had thrown a shadow across the 
path of his love; and, in its mystic and uncertain 
aspect, it seemed to wield an influence which 
could not be disregarded. 

Under these depressing circumstances, he made 
arrangements for an immediate return, and was 
soon on his way to the settlement. For the first 
time, the ride in the wagon through the beautiful 
country was irksome and oppressive. But, hav- 
ing finally arrived, he made haste to go to the 
cottage. Before he arrived there, he met Mr. 
Trevlyn, who had gone out in search of Gertrude, 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


175 


and learned from him the correctness of his sur- 
mise regarding the character of Grammell's 
death and the manner in which it had affected 
Gertrude. 

They arrived at the cottage and entered. Ger- 
trude was seated on the sofa, immersed in 
thought apparently of a burdensome nature. 
She arose as they entered and advanced to meet 
Chester, but paused as he looked at her in 
amazement. 

It was not strange that he was shocked. In 
the few days that had elapsed since their last 
meeting, she had undergone a remarkable change. 
Her face had lost its color, and her eyes their 
brightness. Her expression of supreme content 
had yielded to a look of care, almost of despair. 

With the utmost tenderness, he took her in 
his arms. She laid her head upon his shoulder, 
and wept long and freely. By gentle persuasion, 
he coaxed her at length into a state of quietude. 
Then, placing her beside him on the sofa, he took 
her hands and held them while he spoke. 

‘ ‘ It was an occurrence which we all deplore, 
but which none of us could foresee or by any 
honorable means prevent, and you must let it 


176 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


trouble you no more, for you have been worrying 
too much, my darling. You must try to forget it. ’ ’ 
Gertrude looked up. Her composure, which 
had partially returned, again forsook her, and 
she labored under the excitement which had so 
recently made its advent in her existence. 

‘ ‘ Impossible, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ Forget it ? Never, 
never. If I only could ! But I know that it will 
cling to me all my life. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then you must not allow it to affect you so 
seriously. Let us try and speak calmly about it. 
When did you first learn it ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The letter, that letter. ’ ’ She shuddered as 
she took it from a desk, where it had lain out of 
her sight since she had first read it. Without 
glancing at it, she handed it to him, and he read it. 

He crushed it in his hand and started up. On 
second thought, he resumed his seat, and finished 
the perusal of the letter. Now, when he spoke, 
he was perfectly calm, 

“ It is unnecessary to express my opinion about 
this letter,” he said, ” it will be better to assume 
that it is not in existence: better for us and cer- 
tainly better for its writer. ’ ’ 

” Then you do not believe there is any ground 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


177 


for his reproach ?” asked Gertrude earnestly, so 
earnestly that Chester glanced at her in surprise. 

“ Gertrude, how can you ask me such a ques- 
tion ? What wrong could you have done ? What 
wrong can you do ?” 

A smile, though not relieved of sadness, came 
to her face. Mutely she thanked him. A brief 
silence ensued,- during which she was engaged in 
thought, that evidently related to no pleasant 
subject, for he saw her shudder as again that 
serious expression, which seemed bent on a per- 
manent presence, crossed her countenance. 

“ Gertrude,” he said, gently but firmly, ‘‘ you 
must stop thinking about that. It has affected 
your health and spirits, an effect which may be 
serious if you persist. ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes, I know,” broke in the agitated girl, 
as she arose. ” I know it, but I cannot help it, 
I cannot forget it. Wherever I go, it follows me; 
it haunts me; it will not leave me; I have tried to 
run away from it. But every tree in the forest 
now seems to bear his form ; every withered leaf 
tells of his fate, and every rock in the moun- 
tain looks at me with a silent threat. When 
I try to find out what I have done, of course, 


178 


SUNBEAMS and SHADOWS. 


they cannot speak, they can tell me nothing. 
But they seem to reproach me. Oh, I can bear 
it no longer.*’ 

Chester arose, walked to where she stood, took 
her hand, and led her back to the sofa. He 
waited until they were seated before he spoke. 

“ My Gertrude,” he said, “ you are tormented, 
not by anything that has occurred so much as by 
your own imagination. All that has taken place, 
although dreadful, is certainly insufficient to 
produce the effects which I oberve. Come, let us 
be reasonable in considering this matter, and 
restrict each cause to its proper limits. Assur- 
edly, by nothing that you could have done, con- 
sistently with your honor and your duty, could 
yon have preventeci the catastrophe, even if he 
had given notice of his intention. As to him, I 
do not wish to say anything unkind of the dead, 
and, in justice to him, it devolves upon us, as a 
duty, to assume that he was not in his right mind 
when he wrote that letter. This is clear, not 
because of the mad act that followed — for suicide 
is more frequently ascribable to moral than to 
mental weakness — but because the writing of this 
letter was not an act to be imputed to a rational 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


171 ) 


being. This is not a legacy which a sane man 
would leave to the object of his love. Why 
should he seek to destroy your peace, even if he 
believed his accusation to be justified?” 

Gertrude concurred in his reasoning, but that 
did not improve her position. Her feelings could 
not be controlled by any arguments, however 
cogent, that could be brought into service. She 
paused and looked about her, as if doubtful of 
her next step. Several times she commenced to 
speak, but changed her intention. She was evi- 
dently embarrassed. She tried to concentrate 
her thoughts, and he did not interrupt her. Soon 
she looked up. All traces of embarrassment had 
vanished. She looked straight into his eyes, 
with a trustfulness that could not waver, and 
now spoke without restraint. 

“ I do not know how to tell you what I have 
to say; I cannot express it, I cannot explain. 
But I’ll tell you all, just as I can and must, 
and I know that you will understand me 
and will help me, for I need your help. And, if 
I do wrong you will forgive me, will you not?” 
There was an imploring look in her eyes as they 
met his own. 


180 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


He heard these strange words with an appre- 
hension of impending trouble and a suspicion of 
her true import. He realized the fact that the 
great mental and nervous strain which circum- 
stances had imposed on her might evoke unusual 
words and deeds. He was prepared • to indulge 
her every wish or whim, however unreasonable 
or exceptional it might appear; and his answer 
was prompt and sincere. 

“Gertrude,” he said, “my reason would I 
doubt before your motives. Your judgment may 
some time be misled, but your intent cannot be 
wrong. You can do nothing which I would not 
readily forgive.” 

Gertrude thanked him with a look of gratitude. 
She remained silent for some time, while he 
waited for her to speak. He noted her evident 
reluctance to proceed, and the force of his mis- 
giving increased. Suddenly she seemed inspired 
by a strong determination, which enabled her to 
resume. 

‘ ‘ All vows that I uttered, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ believe 
them to be true. All promises that I made to 
you I did intend to keep, but he has killed my 
hopes, he has destroyed my peace. I cannot — 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


181 


cannot go further. He made himself a destroyer, 
and, like a terrible destroyer, he now stands in 
my path.” 

He understood her perfectly. He, too, now 
saw the specter of Grammell stand as a possible 
barrier between them. He aro.se from his seat 
while she spoke, and listened with strained atten- 
tion. For a time, he was silent, not knowing 
what to say or do. It required a great struggle 
for him to regain a reasonable degree of self- 
possession. Gertrude, after her last words, had 
turned away from him, and rested her throbbing 
head upon a chair. 

What appeared to be a long time passed in 
silence between them, a period devoted by Ches- 
ter to the collection of his thoughts. Here was 
an emergency requiring a most dispassionate 
treatment, while sounding the depths of his 
strongest emotions. He realized that all that 
was of value to him in life was at stake, and he 
made a mighty effort to regain his self-control 
and meet the situation. 

“ Gertrude,” he said. 

She turned and looked up at him, in response 


182 


sunbeams and shadows. 


to his summons. Her face gave evidence of her 
intense suffering. 

“Gertrude,” he repeated, “we are speaking 
upon a subject by far the most important of our 
lives. No haste or rash resolve, if either can 
influence our acts, can.be justifled. The most 
serious thought of which our minds are capable, 
the highest motives that our souls can frame must 
come to our aid. ’ ’ 

She made no reply; but her manner assured 
him of her close attention, and he proceeded. 

“ You ask me now to give up all that I have, 
all that changed .my life from an unworthy and 
monotonous existence to a state which left me but 
a single wish — not for anything which I did not 
possess, for there was nothing more that I could 
covet — but that I might retain that which I already 
had. All this you ask me now to yield. If this 
must indeed be done for your sake — if it is essen- 
tial to your welfare — then I cannot refuse without 
being recreant to my promises to you and denjdng 
the love which I profess to bear you. But is it — 
can it be true that such a course on my part is 
requisite to your happiness?” 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


183 


*’ To my happiness ? To my unending misery.” 

“ Then why should that be done?” 

” Because there is nothing else left for me. 
My peace has been destroyed, my life has been 
changed.” 

” But remember, were we to do as you now 
suggest, our act would defy the mandates of our 
reason. There is neither a good cause preceding 
it nor a beneficial result by which it can be fol- 
lowed. What good can we thereby secure or 
what evil avert ? Is there a single rule of reason 
or morality requiring it ?” 

” No, no, but reason cannot help me in this 
trial. I have tried it, but I cannot shake off the 
phantom. Yesterday I passed a ridge of sand- 
stone; its red had before seemed beautiful to me, 
but now it appeared to be reeking with his blood. 
If I should marry you and he could speak, he 
would, from his cold grave, call me his murder- 
ess.” She shuddered at the utterance of the last 
word. 

‘ ‘ My darling, you must pay no attention to 
these oppressive visions. ’ 

“Then I must cease to think and to remember. ” 

“Such fancies,” he said, “have scarcely the 


184 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


elements of existence, even as specters of de- 
parted images. They are not even shadows, for 
they reflect no forms. Here, where you have 
lived all your life, most of what you have seen 
has appealed chiefly to your imagination, and 
you have made it, in turn, your guide, your 
teacher and finally your tyrant. And now, for- 
getting the bounds of its own province, it seeks 
to invade the realm of reason. It is time to limit 
its power; we are slaves to any despotism that 
blinds us to our reason.” 

Gertrude listened to his words with perfect 
quiet and attention, and, when she commenced 
to speak, it was in a calm tone. 

“Yes, you are doubtless right,” she said, “ and 
often when I think about it all, I believe as you 
do — about the facts, the reason I have never 
analyzed. I then can see that I was not to blame, 
that I did nothing to forfeit my right to the happy 
life which I had expected. But — but when it all 
comes back to me, when I remember his words 
that it was the thought of my marriage which 
drove him to this, I can think no further, I can 
only act as I am impelled.” 

Chester was silent. He was deeply perplexed. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


185 


Heie was a situation of affairs which he could 
scarcely realize, much less understand. It cer- 
tainly had no parallel or precedent in his past 
experience. They loved each other, and there 
was no one to oppose their marriage, yet his 
project was confronted by an impediment of a 
very serious and menacing character. She her- 
self was the only one to urge an objection to the 
marriage, and, as this thought occurred to him in 
its abstract form, he shook his head reflectively 
while he spoke. 

“ Gertrude,” he said, “ you did not know your 
feelings when you promised to be mine.” 

She looked at him in speechless reproach. Her 
eyes filled with tears, and she turned away from 
him. He advanced quickly to her side and took 
her hand. 

“ Forgive me, dear,” he said, “ only in hasty 
words, but not in thought, could I be so unjust to 
you.” 

A pressure of the hand in which her own was 
held gave assurance that he had prevailed. 

“ And now,” he said, ” let me suggest that we 
consider this matter no longer for a day. You 
may have given it much thought, but I have 


186 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


given it none, for such a step as the one you 
mentioned never occurred to me as a remote pos- 
sibility, and I am not at all prepared to meet the 
situation. I must have time to realize it, to think 
about it, and to arrive at some conclusion which 
may accord with your better views. Meantime, 
give the subject your most serious consideration, 
for I have no doubt that it will cause a decided 
change in the plan you now propose.” 

Gertrude assented to this suggestion. 

‘ ‘ And, ’ ’ continued Chester, ‘ ‘ meanwhile re- 
member that, regardless as to what we may de- 
cide, not the slightest change has taken place in 
our relations. You are still mine, and mine I 
hope you will remain forever.” 

And, taking an affectionate leave, which cer- 
tainly indicated no change in their relations, he 
left her. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


187 


CHAPTER XIX. 

He had told the truth. He was unprepared to 
determine upon his course of action, and required 
time to think. He went into the forest, sat down 
in the shade of the hospitable trees, and there 
devoted himself to an earnest study of the prob- 
lem which claimed his attention. 

If he had entertained the slightest doubt as to 
her reciprocation of his love, there would have 
been no room for hesitation. He would then 
have been constrained to accede to her request 
and release her unconditionally; but, with his 
knowledge of the truth, he felt under no obliga- 
tion to comply if he could find a means by which 
the end she sought could be avoided. 

The impediment that had been thrown in his 
path seemed of an extraordinary character. No 
human hand or will to oppose his marriage, no facts 
that could create an obstacle, no ties or duties of 
any kind on the part of either to interpose in the 
form of an obstruction; and yet this, the bright- 
est prospect of his life, was in jeopardy. 


188 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


When he thought about the dreadful occurrence 
and all the facts connected with it, he knew that 
the conclusion which she had deduced therefrom 
was not one which the majority of others would 
adopt or approve. And yet, though it might 
have been a mere sentiment that influenced her, 
one by which others, if placed in her position, 
would not be animated, he understood her feeh 
ings and her motives, and he respected them. 
He could readily understand the physical and 
moral effects of such a shocking event, to which 
she herself had innocently led, upon a girl con- 
stituted as she was. He could understand how 
she could writhe and shrink beneath the re- 
proaches which others would have regarded as 
cowardly and unreasonable. Her early friendship 
with Grammell, his ardent love for her, her ina- 
bility to return it, his last mad resolve and the 
means by which it had been executed, were cir- 
cumstances that could not be ignored by him in 
a fair consideration of the question. It was not 
an array of cold facts, leading to but a single 
conclusion, but a chain of conditions and events, 
depending for their operation upon the depth of 
feeling and conscience brought to bear upon them. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


189 


To his mind it was not a question as to what 
other girls would do if placed in her position. 
A solution of that problem would afford no fair 
test, for the character of her past life, her 
education, her surroundings and her develop- 
ment were all elements essential to a perfect 
comprehension of her course. Nothing in 
her past life had transpired to render her 
callous 'or indifferent to the suffering of others, 
no single occurrence to wound or shock her. It 
was clear that her renunciation involved, not 
only an immeasurable loss to him, but a sacrifice 
to herself, and that this form of suffering was 
chosen by her in a vain endeavor to establish her 
sympathy with her departed friend. If one, 
though through the medium of accident, inflicts 
pain upon those he loves, is he not impelled to 
visit the same punishment upon himself? And 
she would be more prone to do this if the victim 
were one whom she could not love but who loved 
her. 

Her request to be released was no longer a 
mystery to him. He understood her. But that 
knowledge brought with it no diminution of his 
ineffable love. He could not reconcile himself to 


190 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


the possibility of losing her. He would see her 
again, would reason, plead with her, convince 
her. He would do anything and sacrifice every- 
thing, but not that. 

The remainder of the day was spent by him at 
the same place and in the same occupation. Tate 
in the evening, he went to his cottage. In order 
to be alone, he retired before the usual hour, but 
made no attempt to sleep. He sat up, engrossed 
with his subject, and long before sunrise he again 
sought the woods. His morning meal was of no 
concern to him. It did not even occur to him 
that he had neglected it. Now he made a violent 
effort to regain a perfect calmness. His own 
happiness, and more than that, the future of Ger- 
trude, were involved, and the state of affairs 
required the most serious'and conscientious efforts 
of his mind. Summoning to his aid the self-con- 
trol, without which reason can never be supreme, 
he returned, calm and thoughtful, to his cottage. 
He sat down at the table and partook of a light 
breakfast, after which he lit a cigar and again 
went forth. During the early hours of the day, 
he had been eager for the coming of the time that 
he could see her; but now he delayed his visit 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


191 


until he could assure himself of a perfect control 
of his faculties and feelings. At length he 
started . His sanguine temperament had already 
banished all suspicion of despair and had removed 
the gravity of his doubts. Gertrude would 
abandon her design. Time and reflection must 
have convinced her of her error. She would rely 
upon him in the future, as she had trusted him 
in the past. Imbued with this hope, he walked 
quickly to her home. 

Gertrude was not at home. He was informed 
by Mr. Trevlyn that the wife of one of the wood- 
cutters was ill, and Gertrude had gone over to 
tender her assistance. She had left a message for 
Chester to the effect that she would return very 
soon. 

“And I am glad that she is not at home,” 
said Mr. Trevlyn, “so that I can speak to you 
about her in her absence. Chester, something 
must be done, and done at once. She cannot 
endure this strain very long. It will destroy her 
health — perhaps her reason.” 

Chester, who was standing before his host, 
staggered back under the force of the shock which 


192 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


the last words gave him. A wild alarm took 
possession of him. 

“No, no,” he said, “you cannot mean that.” 

“ Our interests are identical,” said Mr. Trevlyn, 

‘ ‘ our ends the same, and we need withhold noth- 
ing from each other. If we do not end this at 
once, no one can foresee the result. This is an 
experience which would be extremely trying to 
any girl entertaining her opinions, and one for 
which she is not prepared by anything that has 
occurred in her past life. It preys constantly 
upon her mind. We must end it.” 

“Then you agree with her that it is neces- 
sary ” 

“ No. I know what you want to say; you need 
not finish. No, I do not believe that you should 
give her up. On the contrary, she is now in a 
position to require your help more than ever. 
Let it be your immediate task to bring her to this 
belief. I have discussed this question with her 
in all its forms and aspects, and I think that I 
have succeeded in producing an impression upon 
her. But the burden of the task devolves mainly 
upon you. And afterwards you must take her 
from this place at the earliest possible moment. 



Now he was alone, and had time to think 





SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


193 


Away from here, the scene of the tragedy which 
affects her so deeply, she will not be reminded of 
it so constantly by what she sees, and its influence 
will diminish, as that of other scenes will in- 
crease. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ If there is any word by which I can produce 
that result, no promise of all good that is and is 
to come could deprive me of its use. ’ ’ 

They heard the sound of footsteps, and Ger- 
trude entered. 

After exchanging a few words with her, Mr. 
Trevlyn left the room. For a minute they con- 
tinued to discuss some minor topics that had been 
introduced in Mr. Trevlyn ’s presence. Gertrude 
began the conversation on the subject that pressed 
its claims most persistently upon their attention. 

“Will you ever forgive me?” were her first 
words. 

“ My dearest, I have nothing to forgive.” 

“ But I know that I have wronged you. I 
know that it was - painful to you, because it was 
so to me.” 

“You said no more or less than you should or 
must have said in view of the ideas and plans that 


13 


194 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


then controlled you, and which I hope you have 
abandoned.” 

Gertrude shook her head sadly. 

“My ideas cannot change;* the troubles of 
which I told you will always be with me. But 
my plans — I recognize the fact that I have no 
right to make any plans without you; that I have 
no right to make you share my suffering, in 
return for all that you have done for me.^’ 

“ Ah ! Gertrude, even suffering can inspire 
content, if borne for the one we love. If you 
believe that fate can devise any burden which I 
would not willingly bear for you, then you doubt 
my love. And that is all I ask of you, to share 
your present sorrow and whatever else the future 
has in its keeping for you. We will be happy, 
Gertrude, if you become my wife. If though, 
we will not, and you still believe that misery is 
in store for you, I want to bear — at least to share 
your misery. If misfortune should come to me, 
it will strike with equal force your sympathetic 
heart. Remember the tie that binds us and our 
vows. We are not pledged to share each other’s 
happiness and ignore each other’s woes. To bear 


SUNBIiAMS AND SHADOWS. 


195 


your burdens throughout life shall be my privi- 
lege; to remove them my sacred duty.” 

There was a brief silence. Then Gertrude 
took his hand and looked beseechingly at him. 

‘ ‘ Chester, leave me, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ Return to 
the city, and find a girl — a woman who knows 
the ways of the world, a worldly woman, instead 
of an unknowing girl, for you to love. ’ ' 

“ That I cannot do,” he said, “for if I would 
offer her my love, I would promise her that which 
is no longer at the disposal of any one. I cannot 
dispose of it, for it is yours; and you cannot, 
because by nothing that you could do could you 
lose or renounce it. Gertrude, I have thought 
much about what you said yesterday. I think I 
understand you. But, notwithstanding all that 
has passed and the promptings of your present 
feelings, I ask you if you still entertain a thought 
such as you expressed, to abandon it.” 

‘ ‘ I also have since thought about it,” she said, 
“ and there are so many, many things that I can- 
not explain. I cannot give you my reasons for 
thinking that I owe it as a duty to him. But 
again I ask you to forgive me. I should not have 
offered to release you. Whatever may have been 


SUNBKAMS AND SHADOWS. 


my feelings and impressions, I should not have 
requited you in such a manner. I should have 
carried out our engagement, and I will.’’ 

He listened to those words with close attention. 
So far from imparting any hope, they demon- 
strated that it would be vain. It was obvious 
that, however strong her love might be for him, 
she no longer desired the marriage to take place, 
but submitted to it only as a duty which she 
owed him. He felt now that, even if there were 
any prospect of a change in her thoughts, he 
could not harrass her with further argument or 
persuasion. Each denial of his wish rendered 
her position only the more painful, and increased 
the danger pointed out by her father. The occa- 
sion required immediate action on his part. He 
would first assure himself of her meaning beyond 
the possibility of a mistake. 

“I think I understand you, Gertrude,” he 
said, slowly and gravely; “but I must be abso- 
lutely certain. When you say that you will be 
mine, does that imply any change of the views 
that led you yesterday to ask for your release? ” 

“ I am not sure that I understand you.” 

“Tell me, if you had not promised, and I 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS 


197 


would to-day for the first time ask you to be 
mine, what would your answer be?” 

Gertrude hesitated for a moment before she 
replied in low tones, which were just audible. 

‘ ‘ I would tell you that my heart is yours, that 
to be your wife would be my dearest wish and 
highest aim, but that such happiness is not for 
me, and never can be mine.” 

The last words were uttered with intense sad- 
ness and with an unsteady voice. Bellmore was 
silent for a time. His eyes were fixed upon the 
ground. He advanced to her, took her hand, 
and held it while he spoke. 

“ This dear hand,” he said, “which you gave 
me, again is free. Our marriage can never take 
place, for it is clear that, just as before, you 
resolved to sacrifice yourself for him, you now 
sacrifice your peace of mind for me. No, no. I 
want no happiness which you cannot share; there 
is none for me. Did we not promise to .share 
each other’s lot ? That promise still is true, and 
we must redeem it. If the occasion indeed de- 
mands a sacrifice, it must be made by both. ’ ’ 

“Oh! Tell me what I am to do. Teach me 
my duty.” 


198 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


“You have done it, Gertrude, according to your 
conception of it. You have performed the high- 
est duty.” He spoke very calmly. To lighten 
her burden as much as possible, he exercised a 
severe self-restraint, and, by his words and man- 
ner, gave no indication that, with her hand, he 
had relinquished all his hopes in life. 

‘ ‘ And you will not blame me ?’’ 

‘ ‘ Blame you ? It would be an offense against 
love and reason. And now, Gertrude, try to 
forget the dark shadow that crossed your life. 
You will be far away from this place, and will 
not be constantly reminded of that occurrence. 
It will, therefore, be easier for you to forget; or, 
if not to forget, at least to limit the scope and 
influence which it should exert upon your future. 
You have but to assert your will. Do it, Ger- 
true, and when your health and peace of mind 
are restored, our present action will be justified.” 

With these words, he arose to leave. Gertrude 
was again in a state of agitation, and he would 
impose no further tax upon her power of endur- 
ance. 

Mr. Trevlyn had informed him that he desired 
to speak to him and had appointed a place in the 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


199 


forest for their meeting. So, after leaving Ger- 
trude, with a promise to see her again on the 
morrow, he started to meet his appointment. 
Meanwhile he tried to defer thinking about his 
loss until he would be alone, for a time, but it 
cannot be doubted that his efforts in this direction 
were not entirely successful. 

A change for the better had taken place in the 
life of Mr. Trevlyn. He was no longer an 
invalid, and had strong hopes that his health 
would be completely restored. This was not his 
first walk through the forest since the appearance 
of this change. He was waiting for Chester, as 
the latter came up to him, and looked anxiously 
at him, as if to divine the result of his interview 
with Gertrude, and in fact it was evident, from 
the gravity of Cliester’s manner, that something 
of unusual impoitance had transpired. 

‘ ‘ I hope the matter is now settled ?” he inquired 
very eagerly. 

“Yes, but not as we desired.” 

“ What do you mean ?” demanded the old man. 

“ How else could it possibly be settled ?” 

‘ ‘ I yielded to her request. ’ ’ 


200 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


The old man was too deeply shocked to say a 
word, and Chester proceeded to explain. 

“And now it is past,” he concluded, “it 

never can be changed’ ’ 

‘‘Wait, I do not agree with you. I think it 
can and will be changed. When she is herself 
again, her thoughts will undergo a change. ’ ’ 

“ Perhaps, but there is no immediate hope for 
that. I tried hard to discover some, but could 
not. The purpose which she formed has now 
become a part of her existence, a vital element, 
whose influence appears to be as unchangeable as 
are the conditions which produced it.” 

‘‘ Perhaps, if you had given her more time ” — 
“No, no. I could not have prolonged this 
state, which was undermining her health, and it 
would in any event have been useless. But let 
us speak of that no more. I must have time to 
think about it, to understand it, to realize it. It 
is so sudden.” 

The old man was silent. It was evident that 
he had suffered a great disappointment. He 
perceived that his arguments and expostulations 
would be unavailing, and, yielding to Chester’s 
request, said no more about it. In fact, no more 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


201 


words were necessar3^ It never required much 
speech for these two men to understand each 
other. 

“We must now consider our immediate course, ” 
said Chester. “You were right in saying that it 
is absolutely necessary that Gertrude leave this 
place at once. Delay may be dangerous to her. 
It will not require very much time to effect your 
arrangements. I have submitted the old papers 
which you left with me to some parties, and I 
think I can procure an offer for them, and also 
for this place, and I shall go to the city to-day 
upon that business. The day after the morrow 
I shall return. ” 

And with a parting message for Gertrude, 
whom he had not informed of his contemplated 
departure, he went to the city. Having arrived, 
he visited the office of the solicitor with whom he 
had formerly transacted his business, and, in a 
brief conference, explained to him his wishes. 
He laid before him a list of the papers which Mr. 
Trevlyn had given him, and opposite each item 
were some figures. 

“ It is my purpose,” he said, “ to purchase all 
these papers at the prices at which I have listed 


202 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


them. But I do not want to have my name appear 
in any way in the transaction, nor must it be 
known that I have anything whatever to do with 
this business. Will you buy them for me? ” 

‘ Certainly, if you desire; but you may not be 
aware of the fact that all of these securities are 
worthless. They have neither a present nor a 
prospective value, and you are simply throwing 
away your ;noney, if you buy them.” 

” They are valuable to me,” he said, ” for they 
subserve my purpose. Another thing: Mr. Trev- 
lyii is going away and wants to sell his place. 
The two old wood cutters are anxious to buy it, 
and I wish 3^011 would arrange that sale. I have 
made here an estimate of its value. ” 

The solicitor looked in astonishment at the 
figures submitted to him. 

‘ ‘ This amount, ’ ’ he said, “is at least four 
times its value.” 

“No, the purchasers will lose nothing by it. 
I shall agree to save them from loss, and I shall 
lose nothing by it, be assured of that.” 

There was very little further talk between 
them. Chester gave the solicitor a check for the 
amount required, and returned to the mountains. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


203 


His first visit was paid to the wood cutters, with 
whom he arranged the details of their part of the 
transaction. 

The solicitor followed him very promptly; and, 
having meantime written Mr. Trevlyn a request 
to meet him at Chester’s room, effected the nego- 
tiations with little difficulty. The wood cutters 
were brought in, and the matter adjusted to the 
satisfaction of all parties concerned. 

After the close of this business, Mr. Trevlyn, 
when he was alone with Chester, expressed his 
.surprise that he had actually come into the 
possession of a fortune, and from a source entirely 
unexpected. But from Chester he could learn 
nothing beyond that the solicitor was noted for a 
prompt and efficient attention to business. 

The departure of Mr. Trevlyn and Gertrude 
was now again the subject of discussion. Accord- 
ing to the former, Gertrude had undergone no 
improvement in her condition. She seemed more 
nervous than ever, and was easily affected by 
slight causes, which a brief time before would 
have failed to elicit any notice from her. It was 
certain that any further delay would be unwise, 
and, all preparations having now been completed. 


204 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


Mr. Trevlyn announced his intention to leave the 
next day. It was not practicable at this time to 
choose any certain destination, as that would be 
made to depend upon the effect exerted on the 
health of Gertrude by any particular locality. 

“Will you come over to-day?” inquired Mr. 
Trevlyn, when he arose to go. 

“No; not to-day,” said Chester. “I shall 
come to-morrow..” 

“Rely upon it, she will change her mind, and 
you will hear from me very soon. ’ ’ 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


205 


CHAPTER XX. 

The preparations for their departure had all 
been made, and the day had come. In a few 
hours, they would leave their home, the only one 
that Gertrude had ever known, never to see it 
again. Whatever may have been the old man's 
emotions, he was careful to conceal them from 
Gertrude. As a matter of fact, he shrank from 
the change. He regretted to leave the little cot- 
tage in the mountains, where he had spent so 
many years in peace, to enter the active world 
again, though now relieved of the necessity to 
participate in its fierce battles. But of all this 
he said not a word to Gertrude. 

And Gertrude, for the first time in her life, was 
discontented. She could not, even to herself, 
define her wishes, nor adopt any plan for the 
future. At times, she would take a fleeting ret- 
rospect into the recent past, and, as the vision of 
her blissful hopes would now arise, in painful 
contrast to her present condition, she would seek 


206 


SUNBEJAMS AND SHADOWS. 


refuge in another line of thought. But her efforts 
were not successful. 

In all her reflection and meditation, however, 
never once did there occur to her the design to 
change all this by a word. It was in her power 
to summon Chester, to vow, with all the earnest- 
ness which truth could lend, that her love for 
him had never been so great as now, and that she 
would recall the request which he had been con- 
strained to grant. The motives which had under- 
lain her act were grounded in her very soul, and 
would leave her only with life itself. It did not 
occur to her that she had adopted this course in 
the performance of a duty which she owed to her 
own conscience. She had yielded obedience to the 
law of nature,, without inquiring as to the reason 
upon which its mandate was based. 

She attached no importance whatever to her 
father’s plans relating to their contemplated 
journey. At this time she had no hope to derive 
any pleasure or advantage from the delightful 
scenes that she had longed to view. She had now 
but a single aim in life, and that was to devote 
herself entirely to the care of her father. It was 


sunbeams and shadows. 


207 


the only task that opened up a field for her future 
activity. 

The day of her departure she went out very 
early for a stroll, to take a final leave of the 
places and objects that had been so dear to her. 
the scenes of the past, in all the beauty with 
which the occasion had invested them, were now 
reproduced before her mind. The mountains had 
never before appeared so grand, the stream had 
never been so clear and beautiful; the grass 
seemed crowned with an undying verdure; and 
the birds had never sung so sweet a melody as 
this, the lay of their last farewell. All seemed 
intent on an effort to render their parting kind 
and memorable. And yet to her eyes, they bore 
an appearance of sadness, which their beauty 
could not conceal, nor their past obliterate. 

She wandered to the tree, underneath which 
still lay a fragment of the broken pitcher. This 
tree had been a witness of her development. It 
had seen her as a child at play;’ it had supported 
the swing in which she had .spent many hours on 
summer days ; its branches had been her shield 
from sun and storm; it had witnessed her studies 
and listened to her recitations when no other 


208 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


auditor was near. Beneath its leaves she had first 
met Chester Bellmore. With' her arms about it 
she wept adieu, and, picking up a leaf that had 
fallen from it, she placed it in her bosom, and 
returned to the cottage. 

I^ater in the morning, Chester Bellmore arrived. 
They knew that this was to be their last meeting, 
and for a time both were unusually quiet. They 
avoided the subject of her departure, as if their 
silence could in some way obviate its necessity. 
But at length they began to realize that there 
was something more to be said by both, aud that 
this would be the last opportunity afforded them. 
Gertrude was the first to make the venture, and 
she spoke hesitatingly and anxiously. 

‘ ‘ You will now leave this place ?” she inquired. 

“ Not immediately; I want to remain here for 
a time. I have scarcely been able to realize as 
yet all that has occurred, and I must have time 
to think. This place, where it all transpired, is 
best adapted to that purpose. ” 

“And then you will return to the city ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I have as yet conceived no plan for the future 
that could replace the one which I had formed. 
Eventually, however, I shall return to the city.” 



J 

He picked it up. almost reverently. —page 213. 








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SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 209 

* ‘ You are not angry with me ?” 

Chester answered her appeal with a look of 
unutterable tenderness. 

“Angry with you? There is no place for 
anger in my heart; it is filled with love for you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And you will not — I know you will not feel 
sorry that you ever came to this place ?“ 

“No; that would be impossible. This period 
of my past will produce the dearest memories 
that I can ever know.” 

“You do understand me; you do believe that 
all my vows to you were true, and are more true 
than ever?” 

“ I understand you perfectly, and, understand- 
ing you, it would not be possible to doubt you. 
We part under very peculiar circumstances, Ger- 
trude. It is our common purpose to cause you to 
forget, as far as you can, this part of your life; 
and yet I hope — I know that you will not forget 
me. And though it may be necessary for you, in 
order to regain your peace, to forget all here and 
me therewith, it will be necessary for my peace of 
mind to think of you, and that means all to me.” 

The wagon was at the door. It was time for 
them to start. After assisting Gertrude and her 


14 


210 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


father, Chester entered it and accompanied them 
to the little edifice that served the place for a 
depot. They said but little on the way. As 
they passed the places where they had spent many 
happy hours together, each knew the thoughts 
of the other and words would have been utterly 
superfluous. 

Through the little window of the depot they 
saw the approach of the train which was to bear 
her away. It had but a moment to stop. He 
wrung the hand of Mr. Trevlyn, then turned to 
Gertrude. And yet they were silent. Tong and 
lovingly he held her hands, without a word. 

A moment later, through the window of the 
car, he cast his last look upon her. 


SUNBIJAMS AND SHADOWS. 


211 


' CHAPTER XXI. 

Now he was alone, and he had time to think. 
Now he could analyze the rapid succession of 
events which had revolutionized his career. Day 
and night were devoted to this occupation. The 
history of his recent life was now brought clearly 
to his mind, to its minutest details and incidents; 
but in his situation there was nothing to inspire 
any hope or consolation. 

He had come out west to escape from the 
monotonous routine of a city life, which he 
had not, up to that time, learned to utilize 
in full measure. The result of his visit soon 
exceeded the most sanguine predictions of 
the friend and adviser who had sent him 
thither. And then, when all was apparently 
within his reach, an event which he could neither 
have caused nor averted, shattered his hopes. 

At times, his hopeful nature reasserted itself 
and whispered to him words of comfort; but the 
facts again would force themselves to view, and 
he could not long be deluded. 


212 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


And yet, if he could have obliterated his entire 
experience in this mountain retreat so as to leave 
no trace or recollection of it whatever, he would 
not have done so. Though he had lost her, he 
had not lost all. He had passed here the most 
blissful existence that fate could bestow, and each 
day spent with her would counterbalance* the 
troubles of a lifetime. His future could never be 
devoid of interest as long as he could look back 
to a past whose memories would cling to him, 
with an unending fascination, in all his days to 
come. 

Then too, he still loved her, and had a right to 
love her, and he was loved in return. All other 
ties between them had been severed; but by this 
they were still bound, and, though they would 
meet never again, their separation could not be 
complete; they still lived for each other. 

He had resolved to remain in this vicinity, to 
live over again, in imagination, the days that had 
elapsed since he and Gertrude had first met. A 
portion of each day was spent in the cottage in 
which she had lived. He visited the favorite 
sites that they had known, and, with all the ten- 
der recollections that the scenes inspired, came a 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


213 


recurrence of the thought that those happy days 
could never be repeated. And then his hopeful- 
ness forsook him , and he was lone and desolate. 

He walked over to the great tree. There at 
his feet lay a fragment of the pitcher. He picked 
it up almost reverently, for she had held it in her 
hand. It had led to his introduction to her, and 
with this precious relic he would never part. He 
walked a few steps further, to the place where he 
had first seen her and spoken to her, a green 
speck of earth, unnoticed by others, but inesti- 
mably dear to him. 

Again and again, he traversed the paths which 
they had so often walked together. He visited 
the vSpot where he had uttered his first words of 
love to her, and where later he had heard her 
sweet confession. And in this romantic place he 
wondered if he was dealing with reality or with 
an illusion. His aching heart assured him that 
it was all real. 

It was a perfect day. The world had never 
seemed so beautiful, and to him so dismal. 
Where now were the delightful scenes that had 
taught him the lesson of happiness to be found in 
the universe? All, all were there. Each day 


214 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


the sun still shone, but its brightest rays could 
not relieve the darkness that invaded his soul. 
A full moon graced the eveni ng sky, but it could 
shed no luster on the dullness of his existence. 
His sorrow was not affected by the change of 
night and day, for it would cover all his nights 
and days. 

He lived over the blessed period of his life 
again, the time that he had known her, but now 
it seemed so changed. Again he wandered to 
the stream, to listen to the music of its waters. 
Its voice could still be heard, but it sang a re- 
quiem to the hopes that he had buried. He could 
not understand why the birds now warbled such 
plaintive melodies. The leaves of the forest, 
though as beautiful and green as ever, held forth 
to him no promise He knew they soon would 
wither. The mountains, though, were grand 
and changeless; they were still the badge and 
symbol of eternity. But they reminded him 
most forcibly of his present condition, which like- 
wise could nevermore change. 

And yet again, following the path of these 
despairing thoughts, would come a recollection 
of the days that never could be merged in an un- 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


215 


happy past. He saw her graceful form before 
him; the echoc?s of her words now lingered in 
his ears; again he felt the gentle clasp of her 
hand, again he lived a blessed existence until 

He heard the murmur of the voice that would 
not be hushed. But one word was audible: lyost. 

He resolved to remain in this place no longer. ■ 
The birthplace of his happiness must never be 
its grave. The pyramid which he had erected 
for his hopes had now become their monument. 
He would leave this vicinity. He would go 
abroad, anywhere and everywhere that held out 
a possibility of change. When he would return 
to his home, he would devote himself to an 
amelioration cf the condition of others, for to 
himself the future held out no hope. 

For the last time, he returned to her cottage. 
To him it had become a sacred edifice. He 
walked over every part of the hallowed place, 
which had been traversed by her footsteps. Tong 
and wistfully he gazed upon the cottage. No 
need; it required no further glance to keep it in 
his memory. Slowly he walked away. 

Before he went abroad, he wrote a letter to his 
friend, Dr. Mortimer, and these were its contents: 


216 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


“ All that you promised me, I found here, and 
all I lost. A like experience I can never know 
again; for, as I have no hopes, I can meet no 
disappointment. ’ ’ 

And, on his return, he found a letter, draped 
in black. It was from Gertrude’s father. She 
had found a change, and her troubled mind was 
forever at rest. 


THE END. 



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